The White Peacock

A bird of white, void of jeweled colors iridescently bright Leaving purity of his form and reminiscence of snowflakes and lace He walks, flowing like a ghost in the night A mesmerizing figure of avian grace, though he seems out of place For he remains alone in his space In his world where color matters, birds are not color-blind He may be much maligned, or left behind To those of us who see him, we see a beautiful loneliness A stunning vision of the mind; but, we are not his kind His life may be grim, but we see only magnificence