By Sofi Bajor
He had to spend all of his time cooped up inside.
Like Bukowski’s bluebird in his very own cage.
Tormented by his crowded mind.
Exhausted by thoughts that never let him rest.
They would stack up. Thoughts of himself, warped
like a funfair mirror. Except they were no fun at all.
Trapped inside a sick brain with no one to talk to.
Nowhere to go and nothing to do.
Words never made it past his lips.
He found it hard to understand. Harder to explain.
Over time, he had lost his song.
Underneath layers of doubt and self-loathing
Concrete smothering soft, warm earth. Nothing could grow.
He wanted to flourish, expand and withstand.
But all he could do was wither, silent and slow.
I feel that The Silent Bluebird reflects a common yet unifying feeling of isolation, a juxtaposition which most can empathise with. Throughout the pandemic more people have been working from home, separated from loved ones and feeling much more alone than ever before.
We have all had an excessive amount of time to look at ourselves and the world around us. Sometimes we feel as though it will never end and sometimes our mental health declines further than experienced in the past.