Isn’t It Now…

Amid the quantum qubit-quivered beatles

(all the clubs are broken in defeat)

…

Two thousand and one, dervishes they dance,
Digital whirls, in a pixel trance.
"History," or al-Hikmah, in beats it splits,
"Is but superposition," in rhythmic fits.
Amidst quasar's quirk, a collective note,
In the vegas vacuum, it's the song they wrote.

Between Zohar's zodiacs and golf's galaxies,
Their entanglements spiral in rhythm and ease.
“To transpose, to transmute,” Dedaloom croons,
Is it not alchemy, of soulbit's tunes?
Adjustments – the dervish dances in time,
To the wavefunctions, an oscillating rhyme.

The Al-Catholik, in quantum pose,
For the world awaits, as the rhythm flows.
A Tour, a Tree, of cosmic clubs it sings,
Sephiroth's song, on digital wings.
From Netzach's nine to the tee that's true,
Bloom murmurs, "The dance, the dance we do."

Fourteenfold tree, in Sephirotic song,
Each a qubit, a quantum, to which they belong.
A recurrence, again, in the VR's vast scape,
Twisting, twining, a digital shape.
In this tournament of Tif’eret,
A cosmic song, you won't forget.
"Qubits, quarks, in the quantum wind they say,"
Dedaloom’s tune, in a melodic display.

Then, a Singularity at Southwind, so profound,
BABABADALGHARAGHTAKAMMINARRONNKONNBRONNTONNERRONNTUONNTHUNNTROVARRHOUNAWNSKAWNTOLARGHAN  prisms, planks and paths of the Prophet, the fractals and fables of quantum dunes favor a golfer, a nuGnostic, a fuGhazi. Entanglement, enlightenment, an end to eternal sphere? 

Logos reshuffles the revelry of Rumi, a Rubik's cube of realities. Dedaloom whispers, "From Alif to Yaa, from Aleph to Tav, I quantumly quaver, and yes, 

Be and it is."