I thought of her the other day. All smiles and happiness, breaking the cardinal rule. Moving on with her life after she had lost true love.
I sent a cold wind just to remind her
I can be cruel that way
And she must mountain every molehill I make. She didn't feel the familiar touch and sigh. She didn't hear my voice in the wind and smile.
She screamed and gathered a crowd
She can be foolish that way
A ghost she screamed, of a dead love that I buried with my own hands. It is true, I am a murderer but not this, anything but this. She pleaded to the crowd to hang her.
The crowd just observed and murmured
They can be cold that way
What a horrible death it seems to have died this ghost, look how it's face is still writhing in pain. Pain or ecstasy, a young voice asks. Ah, the young, the finders of love and pain, verifiers of age old truths.
They learn nothing from what is told
Youth can be lovely that way
So an exorcist was needed and I was called. Famous as the man who had once known love, who had lost it and been haunted but who had devoured its ghost till it showed no more. Unknowingly I followed the path of the ghost I had sent. To cast him out of the one who haunted me.
It sort of gets confusing at times
The truth can be tricky that way
Soon as I was close enough to recognize her I was also close enough to realize the finality of what I had done. She was gone, lost in the dreamworld that ghosts of past loves entrap their victims in. There was nothing I could do, no potions of ice cream and chocolates, no spells of Celine Dion. I put a purple flower on her body and then left mine. I found her soul in the dreamworld, free of the memory of what had gone wrong. In a time when love was pure and all was good. Purple skies and purple moons. I held her close, I promised I'd never leave her.
It all makes sense even though it doesn't
Fiction can be pleasing that way
If only life made sense when it doesn't
Living without her would still be livable that way
I sent a cold wind just to remind her
I can be cruel that way
And she must mountain every molehill I make. She didn't feel the familiar touch and sigh. She didn't hear my voice in the wind and smile.
She screamed and gathered a crowd
She can be foolish that way
A ghost she screamed, of a dead love that I buried with my own hands. It is true, I am a murderer but not this, anything but this. She pleaded to the crowd to hang her.
The crowd just observed and murmured
They can be cold that way
What a horrible death it seems to have died this ghost, look how it's face is still writhing in pain. Pain or ecstasy, a young voice asks. Ah, the young, the finders of love and pain, verifiers of age old truths.
They learn nothing from what is told
Youth can be lovely that way
So an exorcist was needed and I was called. Famous as the man who had once known love, who had lost it and been haunted but who had devoured its ghost till it showed no more. Unknowingly I followed the path of the ghost I had sent. To cast him out of the one who haunted me.
It sort of gets confusing at times
The truth can be tricky that way
Soon as I was close enough to recognize her I was also close enough to realize the finality of what I had done. She was gone, lost in the dreamworld that ghosts of past loves entrap their victims in. There was nothing I could do, no potions of ice cream and chocolates, no spells of Celine Dion. I put a purple flower on her body and then left mine. I found her soul in the dreamworld, free of the memory of what had gone wrong. In a time when love was pure and all was good. Purple skies and purple moons. I held her close, I promised I'd never leave her.
It all makes sense even though it doesn't
Fiction can be pleasing that way
If only life made sense when it doesn't
Living without her would still be livable that way
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