In the silent tundra, under the fading light,
Bipolar Bear sighs, weary from the plight.
He’s given his all, his very best,
Yet it’s never enough to pass the test.
In this demanding place, where skills bear no fruit,
They expect his service, with no reward to suit.
His wisdom deep, his talents vast,
Yet in his pantry, the shadows are cast.
Others’ larders, a bounty so wide,
Overflow with riches they carelessly hide.
While Bear’s own cupboard grows ever so lean,
In the land of the plenty, the disparity’s seen.
The irony sharp, as the cold wind’s bite,
Those with the least, give freely to the fight.
Their hearts wide open, their generosity cast,
Giving all they can, from resources not vast.
But the affluent ones, with pantries well-stocked,
Hold tight to their bounty, their hearts firmly locked.
They ask for the moon, and give naught in return,
In the warmth of their greed, they never discern.
Bear, with a heart both weary and pure,
Continues to give, his motives sure.
For even as his pantry bears the cost,
He treasures what’s given, not what’s lost.
In the world’s harsh scale, he may seem a fool,
For playing a thankless, relentless tool.
Yet in his spirit, where the true weights lie,
He knows the worth of a genuine sigh.
And so in the stillness of life’s deep frost,
Bipolar Bear counts not what’s lost.
His essence secure, his kindness displayed,
In the hope that goodness remains steadfastly laid.
Peter Pickering · Bipolar Bear