Happiness. A luxury of the wealthy.
Hope. A delusion. A wisp of smoke.
Heartache. A plague. A disease I spread.
I bring death with arrows and fire.
I bring pain to the arms who held me strong.
Hoping for happiness, aching for justice
but flames cannot burn on a bed of Snow.
Mockingjay trapped in a magic act
only living to return to its cage.
On display, igniting the fire
which burns both those I love and hate.
Will this end? Or will the tragedy consume me
For games played with fire and ice
are deadly just the same.