Sounds of a mind abound in the silent room,
Pounding and racketing till solitude's doom.
A meek cry amid tremulous thunder,
A whimper, amid a past blunder,
The mind I am talking about,
Is in solitude, yet a lonely bout.
The silence with these sounds wanders it in spots,
Making it so difficult to actually connect the dots.
Looking for a sound that eases this roll,
Engulfs right in a fancy world as a whole.
The mind I am talking about,
Is is pain, crying a silent shout.
These frequent spasms of pain and joy are,
In fact taking me up, apart and a lot afar,
As the mind look into a colorful darkness,
It finds itself a misfit to all petty stress.
The mind I am talking about,
Is in the fire, brave as a scout.
A fluttery stillness to the pace of its reflections,
Flips, Dips, Roasts, and toasts it like bakery buns.
With a cocky courage it does not look back,
Throwing stupid stuff off it, all over the track.
This mind I am talking about,
Is forward, fixed, and devout.