There’s irony hidden inside boxes
wrapped in red and silver and blue
shining paper of single use
under green plastic trees
sprayed with scents 
reminiscent of the world 
outside their walls.

There are boxes 
whispering of situational irony,
labels shouting tragedy, tragedy
of irony through soliloquies. 

There’s irony without metallurgy;
love without shiny paper;
tragedies arising from empty bottles;
but only the world outside these walls
can ever bring me comfort,
or hope.