There is an apocalypse in my chest,
and there is a bluebird beating its wings.
They both want to get out;
one sings and the other sleeps.
There is brimstone
and there is symphony
stretched out in the spaces between
gray matter and the bluebird’s bars.
There is song and there are ribs,
and if I cut a hole just big
enough, perhaps she will escape
before the fire of ten thousand dragons
has chance to lunge to cloven feet
and dash my musical friend
against the rocky coast of my ribs,
But, still, I do not cut,
I happen to like her in the cage.
I have given her all the things
that I could purchase:
some seed, some drink, a perch
from which to sing.
I do not know If she sings to me
or to keep the apocalypse at bay.
There is a bluebird holding back the waves,
and there is an apocalypse of flames
riding the synapse’s demand’s.
The Poetry Of J.P. 