A many splendored thing,
We slept through a daze.
We gathered a thought
and ran with the ghost.
What ghost, you say?
The ghost of what we thought used to be,
But truly never came to pass.
A many splendid thing,
In regards to what could have been,
Beyond yesterday, it seems,
Is a mystery of what we dreamt of being.
We? We dreamt? How wonderful it must have been.
To dream, I suppose.
I wouldn’t know; all I see is darkness.