What are these photos doing on the wall?
Does she show her parents to those who call?
What is this strange music that fills the room?
Has the dead singer risen from his tomb?
Why are we watching, once more, this old show?
Can the dead actors give us a happy glow?
Are we surrounding ourselves with ghosts?
And, further, are we their virtual hosts?
For they say that this world could be a dream,
That our life is just a matrix-like scheme;
But if we are all actors in a play,
What happens when our bodies all decay?
Do we go to a place that is more real,
Where we can clearly think and really feel?
Or must we still haunt all our offspring,
Those cheerful children waiting in the wing?
Will the real people please make themselves known,
So I’m not in this haunted house alone?