Our miracle is dead and gone,
It’s but a childish memory
Of things that passed when life went on;
My thoughts a fond facsimile.
I stand here and I see the ghosts
Of eons, seconds, under lights,
Nothing but to give the most
That I can give within those nights.
And when I did, all else was right,
And together we would boast;
I still remember drama’s might,
But only as, like you, a ghost.
I pray one day that I shall see
Another thing that matches yon,
But, except for lonely me,
Our miracle is dead and gone.

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Background:

When Ms. Woolbright assigned an extra credit assignment for our unit on Hamlet, I believe she asked for a ghost-themed "anthology". She wasn't expecting this. This is the only poem I look back on this anthology and don't like. I hate it when I write moody poetry; it's so depressing. Post-Production Depression, the depression that follows the closing of a good thater production, is a sad, sad condition that I know all too well. They say there are two cures: help strike the show, and do another one.