Blind Spot
I guess this is the fourth installment in my series on perception, dream and death. I thought it was going to be about quantum mechanics…
The human mind tells itself stories in the dark.
Blind oracle locked inside a windowless room,
it knows nothing of light, sound or smell
only the whispers of electrical impulses
that it names “sunrise” and “summer storm”,
interpreting patterns, singing a song of the universe
from the faint Morse code tapping on the walls.
Our senses catch but a few drops of water from the ocean
of a billion photons of energy and dimension
that crash around us every second,
and from those drops, we dream the leviathan.
Blind oracle locked inside a windowless room,
it knows nothing of light, sound or smell
only the whispers of electrical impulses
that it names “sunrise” and “summer storm”,
interpreting patterns, singing a song of the universe
from the faint Morse code tapping on the walls.
Our senses catch but a few drops of water from the ocean
of a billion photons of energy and dimension
that crash around us every second,
and from those drops, we dream the leviathan.
Shuttered in my own small room,
the rapping messages say you are gone,
the linear perception to which my mind is shackled
tells me you are of the past.
Yet I feel you in the silence between sensation,
the whale song still echoing within the drop of water.
Perhaps you only rest within my blind spot,
beyond the range of mere human understanding,
an energy I can no longer catch or translate,
a now I cannot yet inhabit,
quantum interruptus.
the rapping messages say you are gone,
the linear perception to which my mind is shackled
tells me you are of the past.
Yet I feel you in the silence between sensation,
the whale song still echoing within the drop of water.
Perhaps you only rest within my blind spot,
beyond the range of mere human understanding,
an energy I can no longer catch or translate,
a now I cannot yet inhabit,
quantum interruptus.
I beat against the walls of my cage,
sing a song called "sky"
but my captive born heart has never felt the wind,
knows only dreams of flight.
sing a song called "sky"
but my captive born heart has never felt the wind,
knows only dreams of flight.
One day, though, the key will turn,
I will be released from this room where I dream and sing
and I may find then that eternity flows in a circle, after all,
and that the greatest wonders I have imagined
are as mundane as a morning.
And perhaps I will find you there, waiting,
just outside the door of understanding,
and we will turn our unprotected faces to the wind,
launch ourselves skyward at last
and ignite and burn together
under the brilliance of the billion suns of heaven.
I will be released from this room where I dream and sing
and I may find then that eternity flows in a circle, after all,
and that the greatest wonders I have imagined
are as mundane as a morning.
And perhaps I will find you there, waiting,
just outside the door of understanding,
and we will turn our unprotected faces to the wind,
launch ourselves skyward at last
and ignite and burn together
under the brilliance of the billion suns of heaven.
Tracy Meisky is a poet, writer, singer, songwriter and all-around boat rocker from way back. Feel free to look around, but if you break it, you bought it.
I really like this one. Especially the opening lines. And the whalesong still echoing within the drop of water.