O’ Bountiful Mind,
Such a beautiful delight is the memory we store,
From childhood to now, fears to joyfulness,
Such a glorious creation, Gods masterpiece and more.

Yet I seem to – I mean – I stumble on the spot,
And – Ummm – Memory is something that can’t be bought.

O’ Internal Shrine,
We never fill up; instead our head stays an open door,
From that one first crush to that one first kiss,
Its wonder is a mystery down to the very core.

I have – I guess – I must have lost my train of thought,
For what I had in mind I seem to have forgot…