Bipolar Bear sits beneath the Arctic sky,
Reflecting on the years that quietly passed by.
Once he strived to stand the tallest of all,
But now contemplates the wisdom of being small.
He muses on a life less conspicuous,
Where blending in could have been less laborious.
No jealousy to dodge, no target on his back,
A quieter path, less prone to attack.
"Perhaps it’s better to grow not so tall,
To seem like the rest, to avoid the brawl.
While secretly chasing what I hold dear,
Pursuing dreams without the fear."
Life would have been smoother, of this he's sure,
Less about standing out, more to endure.
The tallest poppy catches the eye,
But also the blade, as others vie.
"Keep your head low," he tells himself,
"Be the silent achiever, not the top shelf.
The number one spot is fraught with strife,
Number two is safer, a less troubled life."
Like the Scarlet Pimpernel, elusive and discreet,
In shadows and whispers, his ambitions are complete.
A stealthy approach, subtle and keen,
Visible yet hidden, seen yet unseen.
This thoughtful pause provides gentle relief,
In the tranquility of the snow, he discovers his belief.
Bipolar Bear embraces the art of the veiled,
Where his dreams continue, silently sailed.
Peter Pickering · Bipolar Bear