Tell me, about the ghost of the little girl in your house.
How you’d hear her laughter in summer mornings.
Feel her warmth in the sunbeams.
Tell me, how in the dark of winter mornings,
You could feel her benine and curious eyes watching,
Taking in the solace of the night, the world not hers.
Tell me all of that, for winter is too warm to bear,
And the remnants of innocence burn in bonfires,
And I need to believe that the spirit remains.
faithlesspaladin 