Upon a drifting berg of ice,
the Polar bear awoke,
to vast and endless ocean’s stir,
alone, his heart near broke.
Bipolar Bear, so named indeed,
for moods that ebb and flow,
found himself upon this sea,
where bitter winds did blow.
With iceberg throne beneath his paws,
he pondered, should he swim?
Or hold his ground upon this raft,
as chances waned so grim.
Does he panic? Does he roar?
or meditate his fate?
For bears are strong, and hope can hold
against the tides of hate.
No land in sight, no seal nor fish,
his kingdom turned to cage,
Yet calm he stayed, for panic's wave
might seal a darker age.
What to do? To swim or wait?
Each choice held heavy toll.
Yet in his heart, the arctic king
knew survival was his goal.
Perhaps it's not the end but start,
of tales yet to be spun,
Bipolar Bear on drifting ice,
his journey just begun.
The tale spins on, the bear he dreams,
of lands where he might stride.
And in his heart, a steadfast hope,
that currents turn the tide.
Peter Pickering · Bipolar Bear