In the city's pulse, a lens he holds,
Bipolar Bear, his tale unfolds.
Through cobble streets, past faces worn,
Captures highs and lows, both dusk and dawn.
He's there in black, he's there in white,
In greyscale moods from day to night.
In alleys dark and boulevards,
He seeks the truth, he bares his cards.
Mania lifts his shutter speed,
A frenzied chase of that next lead.
Click, it's snapped, the frame's alive,
In this fervour, he does thrive.
Yet comes the shift, the downturn calls,
His lens grows heavy, his spirit falls.
Through teardrop stains, he still observes,
A sombre lens that life deserves.
But each frame caught in its raw state,
Becomes a tool to navigate.
His dual mind, both foe and friend,
Makes richer tales he seeks to send.
Bipolar Bear, in greys and hues,
In joys and sorrows, breaks and clues.
He knows the street, it knows him too,
A vivid dance, forever true.
Peter Pickering · Bipolar Bear