Inspired by "Bluebird" by Charles Bukowski. I call it "Bluebirb".

My bluebird is a feeble, grayish hue, like the sky's reflection on a skyscraper window fifty floors high. She sings a sweet, low melody in a near whisper. I've put little toys and trinkets in her cage, but she never bothers with them. And when I peer into my chest and look into my heart-shaped cage, she is calm and patient, like she's waiting for something. When she thinks nobody is listening, that naïve little bird will sing a tune that sounds like sadness. I don't give my bird enough credit; she's got my back when the vulture in my brain is loud.

I don't let my bluebird fly free anymore, except when a friend's birdy needs help healing. I've found that she's fairly good at that. There's a steadiness about my bird, and in the rainforest of my consciousness alive with chatter she is sitting there in her little cage. Sometimes you have to squint to see her, but she's always there, singing her precious song.

She's not gorgeous, nor particularly ugly. She's constant. Listen, and under the din of chaos and panicked birds you'll hear her, singing her endless song of peace.