Quantum Theory of Poetry

I write to be alive
But
Where did the words reside
Were they always there?
These words, swirling as a cloud
Longing to be assembled into a thought
To last for the ages
Or were
The phrases stacked on a shelf
To be picked as vegetables in the supermarket
With only their order of appearance in question
Do all the thoughts that ever were
All the thoughts that ever will be already exist?
Just waiting to be discovered
Or does their existence
Only solidify at the very instant
The ink touches the paper
It seems to be
A literary
Schrödinger’s cat

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