Quantum Sonnentanglement

There is a world in which the words I write–
The ones you’re reading now–were never writ,
And of a thousand things that are tonight,
If one were not, this world would be it.
I never know, when I pick up my pen,
What words will find their way onto the page.
I might be angry, furious, but when
I read them back the words depict not-rage;
As often, when my goal is to amuse
Or titillate, I sometimes strike a nerve
Inside me and I find I’ve played a ruse
Upon myself, and got what I deserve.
A thousand worlds exist without this verse
But no one there knows whether this one’s worse.


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