Bluebird Retake
(Worth It)

Charles Bukowski once said there was a bluebird sleeping soundly in his heart;

I've always wondered what shade of blue it was,
If it was as beautiful as the world that tore it apart.

Was it a nice shade of deep, cerulean azure, or was it a light, sky-sapphire?
Did it have wings as majestic as a hawk's, and beautiful black eyes the contour of dark ebony?
Did it fly the skies at night and perch on tree branches during sleepy mornings, slumbering against the fog of warm, spring air?
Did it beat hard against his chest while it was trapped behind bars, or did it just disappear during those times when nothing stirred but the claws of loathing and the facades of bravado?
Did it wither away with the passing of time, through the years of human suffering, and fade into dust and nothing...nothing...?

Charles Bukowski once said there was a bluebird that wanted to get out of his heart;

I've always wondered if the bird hated him for it,
If it hated him for keeping it trapped forever, ever, in that horrid place
While he went outside and destroyed the world with all of his might,
And it stood there watching him, silently, with tears falling from its beautiful black eyes,
And its powerful wings bent and ruffled from years of disuse,
And its body fighting feebly against wave after wave of human hatred and emptiness.

I've always wondered if it was worth it,
If the bluebird ever thought his suffering was worth it.