Manic

The Manic Waltz

In the dimming light of a London evening,
the city hums a low, restless beat;
rain slaps the cobbles like a drummer’s wrist,
each splash a phrase in someone’s mind.

There, in that corner café, a lone figure moves—
a pirouette of thoughts that never sleep.
His fingers tap a rhythm on a notepad,
ink bleeding the picture of a day that feels like a midnight train.

Manic, they say, is a word that clings
to a spectrum of colours you can’t see:
turquoise flickers beside scarlet, all at the same time,
the brain a kaleidoscope on a run‑away carousel.

He speaks in bursts, each sentence a lightning bolt,
his laughter echoing down the alley, a reckless drum.
In the hush between one thought and the next,
he feels the ground tilt, every step brandished with urgency.

The Thames, usually a placid ribbon, reflects his pulse—
water swirling, turning, swirling again—
like the pages of a book that each turn begs for another word.

Yet, beneath the vibrant surge of creativity,
there’s a hush, a tremor in the chest,
the quiet voice that gnaws at the edges of a mind
practising a dangerous dance with its own zeal.

Not all mania is bright; some nights are rent
between the bright sunrise of goosebump joy and the chill of night‑sized dread.
It is a double‑ edged coin, seductive as it is perilous,
like a tonic that lifts you high, but also takes you low.

So let the manic beat go on,
a restless, stormy song;
brave as a Thames night ride,
gentle as a cup of hot tea,
the duality of a human heart—
in every frenzy, a promise of solace.