Are we wrongs floating in a stream of rights

As a child I was warned of the peacock’s fang

how a royal turkey wasn’t worthy of such name

They said that only by the hand of man

would the wood find its graceful grain

From child to teen

I unmasked that peacock’s shame,

and that peacock was me

I carry this cursed fang

This gnarled stake

to glide like the rusting blade

of the guillotine of blame

Over and over without break

as it did on those before me

By this wretched crusade

who took my feathers

and wrapped them in embers

My identity they claim to tame

Pushed me to a darkness within a smoldering cell

On this sole memory, I dwell

Holding on to the last of my glistening self

I cannot help but ask

Are we rights drowning in a flood of wrongs

©PseudoBop 2017 All rights reserved.

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