In the quiet white, under the silent moon,
Bipolar Bear stands, a misunderstood tune.
Seen by the world, but known by few,
Like an iceberg’s depth hidden from view.
Only the tip, sharp and clear,
Is what they see—close yet not near.
But beneath the surface, there lies much more
Of the true essence of the Polar Bear lore.
He speaks his truth, his voice sincere,
But the wind whistles past, they do not hear.
His words, a breeze over cold, dense ice,
Unheard, unseen in frozen paradise.
Friends come and go with the drifting snow,
They judge on what they see, not what they know.
What’s visible is easy, simple to accept,
The depths unseen, complex secrets kept.
The true bear waits, beneath the guise,
Rich with emotion that behind blue ice lies.
If only they’d dive below the surface so wide,
They’d see the warmth he holds inside.
His tale is one of hidden depth and unseen truth,
A vast world beneath the icy roof.
For like an iceberg in the frigid sea,
Most of what he is, remains a mystery.
Peter Pickering · Bipolar Bear