A bear wakes in the early dawn,
his paws feel light, he gives a yawn.
He climbs the mountains, sniffs the air,
the world below him laid out bare.
He roars with joy, a king, a sage,
unstoppable, beyond the cage.
His wisdom shines, the sky turns bright,
he can touch horizons within his sight.
But come the dusk, the shadows creep,
for reasons unknown he begins to weep.
The path he knew is lost, unclear,
his mighty roar reduced to fear.
His paws grow heavy, head hung low,
the world he owned now feels like snow—
cold and endless, sinking deep,
with no warm cave to fall asleep.
He looks around, but no one’s there,
no one to see the broken bear.
Yesterday, he soared so high,
today, he asks the silent sky:
"What am I now? A fleeting thing?
A crushed-up leaf, no longer king?"
The stars retreat, he sinks below,
beneath the weight, the heavy snow.
Yet somewhere deep, a flicker stays,
a tiny spark of better days.
For he knows and trusts, all too well,
that after snow, the rivers swell.
And though today the frost feels near,
tomorrow’s sun may yet appear.
He waits it out, this heavy air,
for there’s more life left in Bipolar Bear.
Peter Pickering · Bipolar Bear