A Ballad of a bipolar patient in our unforgiving world.

Can you see? A rainbow dying?

Can you hear? A storm-cloud scud?

Perhaps you can; and perhaps you cry

Me? . . . I don’t know . . .

I REALLY. . . DON’T! . . . know

Can you touch? The dark? Light of night

Can you taste? The light? Darkness in the day?

Perhaps you can; But; perhaps you’re DEAD!

Me? . . . I dunno . . .

Oh God! . . . I REALLY . . . DON’T . . . know

Did y’know. . . children cry?. . .

To see . . . a Rainbow die?. . .

Dy’know. . . fishermen shout “OH GOD!” . . .

When a storm cloud looms . . . up HIGH?

Dark clouds looming; Rainbows dying . . .

Shhh . . lovers’ caress a velvet nighttime’s skin . . . . shh

Mmmm . . Passion kisses a gold sunrise . . . shh MMmmm. . .

Mmmm . . . I’m pretty sure . . . no!. . . I believe it’s so . . .

Oh! Please don’t SAY IT! . . . . . ‘cos I really, really . . don’t know . . .

I can’t do this thing; can’t see this thought . . . no . . .

Where is God? Has He gone on leave or is He just . . .

Hungover from the Tequila sunrises? . . .

Alone I am and . . . alone I know . . . I’m I-N-C-O-M-P-L-E-T-E  . . .

Less than . . . A dram of hate . . . a measure of fright . . .

My Tequila SOUL . . . twisting with the bottled worm . . .

Gravid with loathing . . . festered by fear . . .

Loathing the living . . . Fearful of the dying . . .

Lingering in the limbo of twilight existence . . .

Hearing me; . . .  Touching me; . . . Feeling me; . . . Tasting me; . . .

I’m gone! . . .  Floating . . . In the dimness of uncertainty . . .

Marking . . . Time. . . On a broken clock . . .

Blinded; . . . Deafened; . . . Starved; . . . Muted; . . . NUMBED!

Just . . . . Silently . . .

Silently . . . SCREAMING! . . .

What . . . no-one . . .  can hear . . .

Copyright ©Peter Mark Garnett; January 23 2017

Photograph Cheryl Lyn Cranfield © 2016

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