The wise blood pulsed within her veins
First the sixth sense and then the seventh
Her mind was sick of self taught lessons
The clock struck the tenth hour, and then the eleventh.

Her eyes saw colors their’s could not
But names had she not for their description
The tint of wind and the hue of water
They thought it her dumb and idiot invention.

She heard noise when they were deaf
But she could not record or imitate the sound
The music of stones and the language of trees
They would not listen, for they spoke too loud.

She felt what they were too calloused too feel
But she could not weigh or measure the touch
The texture of thought and the surface of dreams
They said it was madness and dismissed it as such.

She smelled the fragrances they could not smell
But she had no perfume or cologne to match
The stench of pain and the scent of hope
They called her foolish, said her mind had been snatched.

Her tounge tasted tastes that theirs could not
But no herb could she find to imitate the flavors
The spice of music and the tang of peace
They said it was merely her tears she savored.

Her heart had taught her everything
Her mind to see, her nerves to feel
She’d wished for a prophet, a teacher, a sage
To show her that all that she knew was real.

But no philosopher would second her claim
No scientist back her with reasearch and facts
Her teachers all mocked her, laughed in her face
And so she fell silent to cease their attacks.

Her newfound knowledge boiled within
Bombarded, her mind was over wrought
She sank into despair with hardening heart
Lost without a soul with which to share her thought

As the clock struck the twelfth with a deafening clang
She stepped to the ledge and looked to the sky
A last sigh to the world, she drew a deep breath
And in silence the seven-sensed girl leapt to die.