Inside Story (Poetry)

One moment I am Africa — swamped
by heat — brain jungled — scalp invaded
by the prickle of relentless insect feet —
each inch of skin gone clammy — reaching
boiling point inside.

Then in seconds I’m Siberia — frozen to the core
my mind a static icicle caught mid-shiver —
every thought turned brittle — focused
on the sudden cold — the plunge
to a nerveless winter.

I spend so very little time these days
in the temperate zone where once
I lived comfortable — these wild chemicals kept in balance
for the most part — weather tolerable and expected
to stay reasonably mild.

Now hormones fly me superjet between
the two almost unbearable extremes —
roast and deep-chill my body several times an hour —
while no one’s watching — witnessing the subtle torture —
how it wears away at life.

This is the inside story — my slow-burning issues
briefly explained along with the cold war
I’ve been fighting more or less discreetly
all these years waiting for reinforcements
while fire and ice torment me

and I battle to stay even half-way
sane.