Dead

                                                 Picture: Google

I picture you a prism,
splitting your
white peace
into a spectrum
of grays.

Why must you
dawdle in the air,
dear, dear
rainbow?

Eagles glide low
near, so near
this stratum,
nudging you
my dear-
you do not budge.

Why must you
be unfair,
to these that elbow
you?

You do not budge,
my dear.