When receiving gifts made you sell your soul
and freedom meant nothing more than the four walls of a prison cell
peepers that would take you to a place abundant with smooth and glistening marble castles
but feebly transpose from a fairytale to a dilapidated, soulless street with houses wrecked and abandoned
a gaze that turns to dust before you could even bat an eye
taking you to a chilly winter night where only bats fluttering in the moonlight kept you company
Isn\'t it ironic to be haunted by someone who is not dead?
A presence that drips with honey and an aura that resembles walking sunshine
What\'s the point of turning on the heater and leaving the windows open
While you played in the snow but prayed for warmth instead?
when euphoria meant killing time to board the same train but expecting the route to be different each time
bidding adieu to the foreseeable consequences and turning a blind eye to the root of problems
while happiness meant getting teary-eyed and longing for love resembled a fortnight of hunger
slamming windows shut because certainty failed to make you feel at home, crestfallen because uncertainty swept you right off your feet
Isn\'t it ironic to crave the melody of someone\'s voice who never spoke a word to you?