No one knows
when the introvert,
the quiet one,
the one who stayed
on the periphery,
the one no one
could hear,
the one who hide within
the babble of voices,
shimmied out of
her shell.
No one knows
the one who always
listened,
at ease
with her place in
the well
of shadows, and thoughts
swimming
through her brain.
No one knows
the introvert, the quiet one,
who found a place to be,
to rest, to live,
to dream.
The introvert, the quiet one,
lived among the rest,
content
with those
who lived externally.
No one knows
what came between
except she found
her voice.
And burst,
quietly of course,
and reached
politely, of course,
between
the lines,
On to the scene,
And took her place
in the light.
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