In my home the walls are made of air,
And the floors tiled with hallucination.
We walk around pretending they're there;
It requires delusion and dedication.
In my home when there's a knock on the door,
We hide behind curtains of illusion.
We're not here and don't want your rapport;
It causes disbelief and confusion.
They know they can see us quite openly,
But our feigned oblivion gives birth to doubt.
And the conflict between what they're told and what they see,
Is hard to accept or figure out.
And in my home we're a figment of imagination,
But if we confessed our lies and denial,
We'd reveal the extent of our fabrication,
And the cold truth we'd have to reconcile.