Overtures

Nothing but overtures, nothing but silence in the halls of what could be.  Alone, screaming to ones in verdant hues that hear nothing but the tunes in their own heads.  A cry for help, for compassion and for love goes unheard in the midst of the parading peacocks around the lowly duckling.

When such an overture is made toward the little, shy duckling it beams with pride ready to take the arm of the brilliant colored plumed one only to be faced with dejection as one more like themselves strides past.  Forgotten, the duckling only can watch as mating rituals circle round and nothing dares come closer to the dully-feathered young one. 

The vibrantly colored birds deign to see the outcast, steering away, afraid that their feathers will dull if close, even if to hear a whispered word.  The duckling is nothing but a fixture in their lives, something to make an overture toward but never see it to fruition.