MAKEDA

Her heart was full of words,
Her mind, full of thoughts,
Yet her mouth spoke not,
For how would sense be made
Out of it all?

Her heart was a beating organ,
Her mind, a racing horse,
Yet her mouth was the Sahara,
How would sense be made
Out of it all?

Yet with all the beating,
With all the speechless thoughts,
She knew who she was, and wanted
But how would sense be made
Out of it all?

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