He struts through the room, a spring in his walk, he owns the room oh he does, he’s got the brightest most magnificent plumage. Rivals slink into corners, hoping he won’t notice them, but he won’t he’ll just strut on, unconcerned, unperturbed and unmolested.
He’s not got much in particular to do, he just paces the room, up and down, up and down. Not falling flat on his feet, weight thrown slightly on his toes so his heels touch only on every alternate step. This makes it look like he’s lighter than air, floating an inch above the ground, that very ground that we, mere mortals are fettered so irresistibly too.
He can, so he will, he executes a quick pirouette, it would look ungainly was it not for the riotous mass of colour that balances him, leaning forward, stretching his plumage, open, extended, balancing him. It catches the light as he spins, rays reflecting, a glimpse of heaven, a concession, a hint of what we do without, what he takes for granted.
We stand awed, envious and impotent. He’s a god, a superman, a shining peacock in a naked flock.
I’m nothing more than a plucked chicken, free-range. Clucking, pecking and laying to my heart’s content, satisfied with the empty life I lead. Devoid of any beauty and pride, lacking those few feathers that could serve to elevate me above my lot.
Those feathers belong to me it think as I hurry to tuck my adolescent growth under me, fearing he should see my innocent aspirations. Like a prepubescent beard, one that won’t be shaved and will not acquiesce to grow, my tail feathers just stick out, loud, undeniable evidence of my lack of power over them.
I coax and cajole, plead with them to grow, but they won’t, they have a life, a mind of their own. In due time, they reassure, when the time is right and not a minute sooner. Till then I guess I’ll have to do without.
Till then I guess I’ll have to just look at what he has and just have to wish, to hope that someday I too will have it all, the color, the light and the grace to pull it off.
He’s not got much in particular to do, he just paces the room, up and down, up and down. Not falling flat on his feet, weight thrown slightly on his toes so his heels touch only on every alternate step. This makes it look like he’s lighter than air, floating an inch above the ground, that very ground that we, mere mortals are fettered so irresistibly too.
He can, so he will, he executes a quick pirouette, it would look ungainly was it not for the riotous mass of colour that balances him, leaning forward, stretching his plumage, open, extended, balancing him. It catches the light as he spins, rays reflecting, a glimpse of heaven, a concession, a hint of what we do without, what he takes for granted.
We stand awed, envious and impotent. He’s a god, a superman, a shining peacock in a naked flock.
I’m nothing more than a plucked chicken, free-range. Clucking, pecking and laying to my heart’s content, satisfied with the empty life I lead. Devoid of any beauty and pride, lacking those few feathers that could serve to elevate me above my lot.
Those feathers belong to me it think as I hurry to tuck my adolescent growth under me, fearing he should see my innocent aspirations. Like a prepubescent beard, one that won’t be shaved and will not acquiesce to grow, my tail feathers just stick out, loud, undeniable evidence of my lack of power over them.
I coax and cajole, plead with them to grow, but they won’t, they have a life, a mind of their own. In due time, they reassure, when the time is right and not a minute sooner. Till then I guess I’ll have to do without.
Till then I guess I’ll have to just look at what he has and just have to wish, to hope that someday I too will have it all, the color, the light and the grace to pull it off.
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