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The Convocation

by Tinkerbee
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stepping stones

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The day I graduated,
I blew a kiss at my mother
from the far end of a velvet red podium,
full of stiff-necked,
scholarly eyes,
squinting down,
at the earthlings,
dressed in their convocation fineries.
Draped in white,
starched, smelling like the
linen of hospitals and asylums,
tasted the blood-sweet smell of victory.
Chuckling to myself,
that I will be the Ulysses of my time
and someday seek
and achieve glories.

They crowned me.
They celebrated me.
Sang hymns in my praise.

Soothsayers prophesied the ‘arrival’,
Astrologers said that this was the ‘second coming’.
No one told me
in this clamour of celebrations,
that I was
trying to catch a rainbow.

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