She knocked really hard on that brown door
with hair uncombed but clean;
A second passed by, she sat on the floor,
said later, ‘I’m Cathleen.’
Her face was fair and calm;
but eyes hers revealed stories she had hid.
What brewed inside was storm
that seemed to be concealed by one weird lid.
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The lid was sure unseen,
what could be seen was her spirit refined;
I’d made sense of the scene
before the tales were brought to fore defined.
She had got raped day mid,
on broad daylight, if you have heard the phrase;
And had herself got rid
of goons that now just planned a shameless chase.
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The door remained but shut;
for no one wanted then to see her face.
People now called her slut
without a rhyme or reason, such sad case.
Determined now to lessen her fears,
I went to her and said, ‘No more tears.’
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Categories: Rhythmic and Metric