a work in progress
An electron is a cloud of probability:
How fast and where,
Nobody can say with certainty.
All the lives lived in prehistory:
By stones and bones,
They divine and surmise and call it archaeology.
The things you say and what you mean
Align, or a lie,
Belie the lines I read between.
Milady tempts, but only to tease,
The delight
Is in the wanting, not the having with ease.
Thankfully, she is a virtual infinity.
I shall first die,
Before I sketch even the outline of reality.