I am writing for the little blackbird in my chest; she used to be a bluebird, with a throat made of honey, but now she smokes all my tar, and drinks all my wine. Once, she soared through the azure expanse of my soul, her song a symphony of sweetness, her wings aglow with the light of hope. Her melody wove through the chambers of my heart, a lullaby that brought solace to my weary spirit. But as the shadows lengthened and the world grew heavy, she turned to the bitter taste of tar, the suffocating embrace of smoke. Her … Continue reading To a little black bird in my chest …