Friday, June 23, 2006

Peacock




Peacock

In regal flounce
all strutted eye and feather
you dice daily with eager children.
Your glory is your curse, clarion to the chase,
a blue-green mist of staring to sheathe or flaunt.
A multitude of gaping silent glances with no voice,
blind gazes with no heart, no dealing place in which to share.
Parabled soul of man without perception of the love of God.
You blight our ears with the hoarse laughter of your cackled craking.

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