Ridpath's poem reads like a series of fragments from a mind coming apart while it tries to look composed. The opening line, "As I put on my evening gown," sets up a private ritual of getting ready, a kind of performance, and the lines that follow seem to drift away from it. "Delusion is not apathy" sounds like an argument the speaker is having with themselves, and "We need to construct synergy" borrows the flat language of office meetings, which feels oddly out of place next to something so intimate.
The feeling underneath is a loss of control. The speaker admits to "losing grip of the dark and losing grip of me," then undercuts it by asking whether they ever had a grip at all. That doubt is the emotional centre. The final question, about an ego that keeps dying and returning, sounds tired rather than dramatic. The mood is uneasy and self-questioning, with a dry, weary humour. The title, "Pathogenesis Unknown," fits: something is wrong, and the cause isn't clear.