In this world, you are incarcerated;
As an outcast, you are liberated.
When people are born in prisons;
Little do they know about freedom,
Little lesser about authenticity.
Running to yourself, running away from the world;
Running away from the prison of this din.
Suicide is a crime and euthanasia, not worth a dime.
Those fake lights, those spotlights, that dreadful fame are so foreign, so alien.
An epilogue, an epitaph, an afterthought, an outcast - that is the comfort zone.
Why is this prison adamant on snatching away the only thing that has belonged to me?
My solace, my solitude - the romanticism of being alone and outcast - do not take away my blanket.
Winter is home. I know not any light, I dread it.
An epilogue, an epitaph, an afterthought, an outcast. I am finally home.
My armour is my companion for so long, it feels like a blanket, little lost, not forlorn.
Let me scamper away and count the galaxies and locate which part of pixie dust do I represent.
An epilogue, an epitaph, an afterthought, an outcast.