I'm standing here, in the dark,
A probability, a dying spark.
I have to believe in the ghost of the cat,
In a logic that says "It's more than just that."
The box is closed, the observer has fled,
It's neither alive, nor it is dead.
Like a wave, it can be in two states,
A paradox that time creates.
How can I know, how can I see,
what's inside, what's meant to be?
Worried about the outcome, the uncertainty,
I can't help but feel the weight of the possibility.
And even if I open the box, what will I find?
A cat that's alive, or one that's confined?
That feel will always stay there
always in a way