Analysis of Bipolar: Bridging the Poles

Bipolar: bridging the poles

East and west,
North and south.
Up and down,
right and left.
Peak of the mountain,
Depth of the valley.
Width of the river,
Narrow of the alley.
Day and night,
Darkness and light.
Weak and strong,
Right and wrong.

Position, perspective, vantage point,
Providing its possessor with deft and adroit.
The view from above, the gaze from bellow,
Snow peaked mountains, lushes meadows.
The darkness of night, giving rise to the light,
Turning a plight, making it right.
The weak one calls out, grabbing hold of the strong,
Bridging the gap, removing the trap.
East bonds with west, north touches south,
A synergized world, synchronized.
So was intended, so was the plan,
Opposites combine, to flourish and shine.
For hot to feel cold, for young to grow old,
For flowers to whither, warm bodies to shiver.
Complimenting each other, a master symphony,
Poetry in motion, seamlessly.
From a conductor almighty, infinite and complete,
Creating a world, a universe replete.
A lack less existence, filled to the brim,
With all the ingredients, singing a hymn.

Then He made me, torn apart at the seem,
Two halves of a coin, unable to join.
Severed and split, into sections of two,
Unable to see which one is true.
A duality of parts, a language apart, unable to link, unable to speak.
Two parts of one whole, an unbridgeable gap, causing each one alone the feeling of trapped.
Shackled and bound, splintered at birth,
Not from a twin, a child or kin,
But from the self battered from within.
The hope of cohesion, the dream of the bond,
Shattered and scattered, from the very start.
My north and my south, my up and my dawn,
My right and my left, my smile my frown.
A muddled existence, a cacophonous blend,
Incoherent, disjointed, unable to mold.
Like the cows that where skinny in pharaoh’s dream,
Like the cold of the winter, undoing summer’s heat.
Two poles misaligned, unable to meet,
Pulling further apart, with every heartbeat.

Is it I who is absent, is it I who is cursed,
Lacking the potion, lacking the burst.
Is it I who is blemished, disfigured and wrecked, missing the element, failing the test.
Is it I who is defective, disfigured and scarred,  
Dispensable, unworthy, ready to discard.
Have I been overlooked, possessing no synergy,
Unbalanced, uneven, a chemical deficiency.
How have I been created, from a being like You,
So exalted, all powerful, unable to skew.
Like the world all around me, do I not represent,
A creature reflecting balance and strength.
Do I represent, the dregs and the dross,
Made of debris, cheap without cost.
Do I correspond, to a lab experiment,
Testing and mixing, leftover ingredient.

Perhaps it is this, the painting that’s me,
Not a Rembrandt, Monet that’s easy to see.
Perhaps my distortions, my lack of symmetry,
Are more like a Picasso, contrived  quite deliberately.
Perhaps the uncanny, the unlikelihood that is me,
Indicates but one option, one conclusion you see.
That I am rooted quite deeply, in the creator’s intent,
Certainly not just the result of random select.
It is precisely the schism, the chasm that’s me,
Undoing my blindfold, allowing me to see.
I am not the remnants, the chaff in the breeze,
Nor am I the product, of serendipity.
No, indeed I am chiseled with precision and care,
By the sculptor’s intention, by the hewers device.
Backing up a few steps, looking in from without,
The landscape unfolds, removing all doubt.