The Peahen

Only one poem today. No pictures.

I wrote this only a couple days ago. It may not be the most amazing poem, but then.... it is not suppose to be.

The Peahen
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She might have been as beautiful as a peacock;
But we were not inspired by her, the peahen.
Oh, amongst any other species she would have been
Extraordinary. Her lucid browns and fantastic tans
Radiated in their own iridescence. But still,
Poetry was not written of her. Still, she was
Not seen to be our metaphorical hallucination.

For, it was not her purpose to satiate humanity.

Oh, she rose unto the trees, further than
Any cosmic photon had, rose unto the glow
That complicates our nights. And she was
Lovely, yes, but forgotten. She was the peahen,
A submissive bird, perhaps. But she knew
That all beliefs were derived from dreams.
She knew that she too was psychedelic, knew
That in her less spectacular image, she was
Yet more imaginative, was yet more eternal and
Strange, was yet as a flower, a perfect fowl
Depicted abstractly within her apathy and libido.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet