Many Worlds Theory

BAKLAVA

The body makers have been again,
plucked the burgeons and strewn their
red petals to melt into the ground
as my mind recoils away
from black masks and gun-metal views.

I shrink back step-by-step into
the white-cottoned distance
between embroidered roses,
knotted sheets climbing
up to pure childhood.

In through a window so much more
than a view frame, resolute
in what it showed, it was
a portal to other planets
when I screwed my mind into books
I caught glimpses
of many other theories.

Yet they all fitted inside one world,
millions of definite realities,
mine made from my solid thoughts
while strangers' views are sheets of filo
pastry piled on top of each other,
flat as people used to believe
the planet was, cracking
under the impossible strain
of co-existing.