Music in her head

She dances, she moves

Her head, her legs, her feet

In imperfect harmony. 

Her hair struggles to break free

Of its band. Adding an imperfection

In the silence, on with her reverie;

The music’s in her head. Her grin

Tells us she’s mad. But we, as we

Stand still in the silence, and watch

Her move, grow jealous silently

Of the madness. We want to be mad too.

To dance and move, with the music

In our heads. We wear our lips thin.

While, on her face she wears the grin.
By: sruthihamsini

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