Ripe

A wrinkled page drowned in tears and scribbles,
she memorised each word,
carefully rehearsing
3 times now
in the shower, to the mirror,
late at night when her classmates were sleeping.

It was hard to believe those words were hers,
especially when she barely spoke-
she lived a mundane life of a rose in a field of aristolochia’s
a constant misfit who remained
caressed by their unfortunate norms.

but in the summer of ’89,
as the last standing tree embraced the grounds,
a new sunrise emerged-
the monotony began to fade,
she finally mastered her mettle,
an intoxicating flavour,
bitter at first but it managed to
subdue.

You would assume she would cavort,
but she picked up a pen-
and an old piece of paper cornered in a shelf,
aggressively scribbling away in a sonorous manner,
relishing the words that were no longer confined.

but, as the words dried out,
she heaved a sigh of relief,
taking time to admire the crowd,
her fear had dwindled
and
her voice had finally ripened.

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