The Peacock
On a sunny winter afternoon,I stood in front of the window,
(The lone window in my room)
My naked feet warmed the marble floor.
The window, framing a work of art
By a master never acknowledged.
The majestic peacock
Perched on an odd branch
Looking away from me,
Not looking out either,
Its feathers spilling into the room -
Unimaginable shades of green and blue.
The bird seemed alive,
In spite of being confined to two dimensions
I wondered if it was the master's brilliance
Or the life sustaining rays of the sun.
Was the peacock vain
Proud or nonchalant
Or just naïve?
I then opened the window,
To let the struggling rays inside.
The peacock now looked outside.
The rays of the sun were harsh
And burned my pale, tender skin .
The sky was choked with fumes from reeking corpses.
The cold air was saturated with moans of the survivors.
Impatient vultures circled overhead.
Black ravens made frightening noises.
I felt suffocated,
And scared,
And nauseated,
I felt sadness all around.
Not just sadness but desperation
Apathy and resignation.
I shut the window.
The peacock now looked nowhere.
The bright surreal colours
The games light played with my eyes
Took me back to my world.
My world of delusion
Or illusion,
Where I was happy
I could smell the lotus incense
I could hear the wind chime giggle
I walked away.
Glancing again at the peacock,
It is naïve I told myself.
The next room had another masterpiece.
A window framing a lotus pond.
I resolved to never open it.
Poetry by Rijutha
Read 663 times
Written on 2011-10-02 at 05:30
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