Schroedinger’s cat

How many poems
Have I composed in CFL lights;
and the bulb don’t move or revolve like sun or the moon
The curse of which have fallen
on my words and meanings

It has been years
But only on pages or memory
That I have read or thought, the east and the west of Nature
I am reduced to Schroedinger’s cat –
This world, or that world
of my poem

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