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
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