The Realm of Real Numbers

by Trevor Worthey

A discus sun
Shines down in square beams
On straight-backed trees.

A white Washed shell
Floats up on the white-sand shore;
The spirals of the Nautilus
Are caked with sun-baked
Tangent globules of algae.

The conic sections
Turn though an elliptical orbit
While in their dormant state
Lie the narrow paths of chance;
The God of Luck looks well
Upon the merciful.

In a world where infinity
Can be assessed (not understood),
And particles can fly
In a period of nothingness,
And through a field of light
The eternal war of the human
Conscience is waged:

There lies a secret hidden box
Meant only for those, who would
Deter from their ‘folly’
From the conventions of the past;
Those who’d say
That time is only shifting

That planes lie four including…
That the essence of this world
Is the essence of this music—
For those, indeed,
Who’d see imagination
In its fullest glory:
The Poets
The Dreamers
And the Metaphysical originators.

And in this box
There lies hope
For mankind’s dark, secret lust.



 

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