Oppenheimer staggers
into sunlight,
wondering what happened,
searching for the names, the faces,
the reality of those he knew, disappeared now
into a different dream.
He remembers the rich inky blackness
of war, stamped seals of approval,
signatures he shared.
After the bomb blew,
who knew
what would come true?
This wager of science he relished,
but he never truly knew
it would turn him inside out,
his heart a fragile flower, his mind
a hazy cloud.
Oppenheimer cries,
remembering
his idea of the world
was beyond him
until they made a monstrous burn
that blocked the sun for some.
His memories are lonely
and the energy of each scrap of cloud alone
eternally changes, his family gone.
When he dreams,
he swims in sweeter memories,
his wife leans to kiss him, and
his chemistry remembers.
Dreams coming true
wake him as if he’d never been asleep,
and the thrill grows like a cloud
loving the soil, wet steam,
sun.
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