Bipolar

A dream, a dream, where I tremble in dread! The death bells toll, and I hear their piercing knell. The grave, the grave, where I lie as if dead; like a corpse now buried deep in bipolar hell! Darkness and gloom, woe and despair, I know. Like sheep, my Joy is carried to the slaughter; and torn out, her heart is eaten by the crows as fresh blood spills, and mingles with the water. Pure Bliss, the stuff of Joy, is never mine. Like meat for sacrifice, she is killed and bled: her soft flesh, cooked with herbs, oil, and spiced wine, is prayed over; then devoured till all are fed. Destructive is this manic-depressive disease: a malady, a curse, an evil psychosis, a blight of the mentally sick and so ill at ease, a mental disorder of persistent necrosis!