Range

This poem is part of the collection If We Were To Talk: Poems From My First Year.

I once was free,
But it took hold of me—
The rage of generations,
Uncaged by all of my frustrations.

Like a still mountain—
Frozen, fragile, and waiting to give.
A slight and it all came crumbling down—
Crushing, crashing, destroying only itself.

The face forever changed—
Bruised, beaten, and scarred.
A new scape—
Built upon a brittle ego-system.

Loud was the giving—
That was heard by no one living.
Just vibration—
In that still mountain air.