Upon a bridge of whispered stone,

Solitary she stands, a specter disowned.

Beneath the river, a symphony of woe,

Guilt, a seamstress, weaving thoughts slow.

Dullness draped in hues of ashen sorrow,

A weighted palette, whispers laden, borrowed.

In that tempted mind, a tapestry frayed,

A soul adrift, a desolation conveyed.

Eyes transcend into the water's astral face,

Reflecting a woman, a mosaic misplaced.

What meaning lies in this cyclical refrain,

Guide on her shoulder, a puppeteer of disdain.

Dear damned be the guilty in languid sloth,

A nefarious word, a tempest of thought.

“Leap?” her guide spits, a feverish urge,

Life's threads unraveled, livelihood to purge.

Beneath the bridge, the waters softly weep,

A reflection of questions, a celestial sweep.

The dullness echoes, resonates within,

A yearning for purpose, longing to end.

Today she mirrors her mother's ghost,

A voice akin to that of shadows enclosed.

"Leap, my dear, where adventure awaits,

Sloth's shackles break, death, a tempting gate."

A silence erodes beyond this streaming dream,

For a moment, quiet yields to an enigmatic gleam.

Mother’s gospel compels, an ethereal spell,

Dancing with death, an unbroken carousel.

Hasten be a woman’s feet entwined,

Tempted by water, dared to unbind.

A rush, an ephemeral escape from ennui,

A heartbeat shattered, her last breath, a symphony.

Look at the bigger picture,

urging ‘us’ to scrutinize

Perhaps a broader voice?

Chris Christie, maligned, yet not the abyss,

a nuanced view challenging judgments imperative.

Gaze upon the world, where first glances deceive,

beyond labels, a depth that defies belief.

In matters of love, a queer soul might achieve,

transcending societal norms, offering no relief.

Consider the tableau, subtle privileges bestowed,

unseen pedestals, where one's status is sowed.

Above the lowest tier, privilege subtly flowed,

not the norm, but a construct of societal fallow

Enter the panorama where encounters unfold,

"Sir, how can I help you?" a common query

Perception of gender, a skewed story I am told,

a lens distorting truth, a tale to be bold.

Contemplate the mural, where reflections are absent,

a realization dawns, beyond the individual, transcendent.

"Look at the bigger picture," a refrain persistent,

an imperative to break free, a truth emergent.

Is seeing truly being, or a self-imposed constraint?

An excuse to avoid unseen realms, where privilege acquaints.

In the shadows, safety, where one never faints,

a relay of privilege, not a competition just constraints.

In the grand canvas, interconnected threads entwine,

dismantle barriers, acknowledge privilege as divine

Beyond myopic confines, let understanding shine,

a poetic journey into the unseen, a reflection genuine.

Within the grand narrative, we stand outside,

Poetically ensnared, judgment's pursuit our guide.

Golden threads bind those who love in stride,

Yet preference dictates who stands by their side.

Not he who loves him, a deviation untold,

A palette of blue, not pink, is the mold.

The essence of self, a story to unfold,

In the grand mosaic, identities to be extolled.

He who is he, unburdened and free,

A yearning fulfilled, a quest to be.

Not she, constrained by societal decree,

In the poetic weave, a dance of identity.

In this narrative, not part of the grander view,

Yet poetic verses capture the essence true.

Judgment ensnares, yet fairness is askew,

Threads of gold, love's spectrum imbue.

The bigger picture was never me, but you

“In small towns people scent the wind with noses of uncommon keenness.” - Stephen King

A keenness shrouded in a like minded doubt of difference. The allure of the quaint lies not in an affectionate embrace but in the lessons extracted from those fortunate enough to escape its clutches. Tracing the boundaries of the backwoods town mirrors the scars etched on my own skin—a repository of memories, no more, no less. A fragment of myself remains entwined in those Front Royal Virginia mountains, as the roots we plant are born from the pieces we leave behind.

My skin will feed the grass cows graze on, the grasses bound to that small haven of humanity alike to the people who walk upon it. Friends and family become custodians of an untraceable history, even as the eldest among them begin to forget. It is a wasteland, rotten in the familiarities of small, the keenness of like minded normalcy. Differences attempt to diverge from this homestead but are fiercely guarded by the legacy of families bound together by blood, yet ignorant of the intricate ties that bind them.

The scent of the wind wretches those unused to the tall pines of the Shenandoah; a warning. Generational wealth lies not in opulence but in the muck where pigs wallow in their own filth. No soul is given leeway to sit but not settle. The children of childhoods past plant their roots in the very houses they grew up in.

There is a nuance in the locality here, a silent memoir predestining these legacies of Front Royal to be planted in a soil not of their choosing. An eagerness to escape fades by adulthood, overcome in its stead by the comfort in small. I do not love the house I grew up in, as its walls suffocate me with past promises. States away I find myself wrapped in the roots of Appalachia; my habits, sown in the landscape I have known since birth. Thrashing about, I battle these vines weaved into my every breath, movement, and unspoken thought; I navigate a terrain where those around me, inert and hesitant, lie as posed sculptures by the predetermined fate tied to our home, roots ringing their necks, silencing their breath.

Poignant my narrative told,

A paradigm of growth; life's tapestry holds.

Life’s surging fire, an allegory profound,

Confession of innocence, sentiments abound.

In childhood whimsy, memories reside,

Tracing footprints of companions, once bide.

Raw emotion, an exquisite ache,

As innocence crumbled, my soul quaked.

The flames, once vibrant, consumed in gasps

Charring the echoes of joy naught forever last.

A sepulcher for the fur and feathered kin,

A poignant chapter, a burden begins.

Yet time, the silent maestro, orchestrates the dance,

Transforming the searing loss into a tempered trance.

The rawness, a symphony of poignant notes,

Fading with each dawn, ken be cutthroat.

A numbness resides in dear childhood eyes

Tears swelling, all but a bitter guise

A scorching blight forever in sight

Fiercely love seeks only to smite.

Embracing the dichotomy, from living to end,

A journey through loss, a complex blend.

Self does matures, understanding unfurls,

Life's harsh truths, mirrors past pearls.

The quelling of emotion, a measured grace,

In the cadence of time, where sentiments erase.

For living, in essence, holds weighty pang,

Innocence lost, all but smoke still hangs

I scratch my arms to shed your roots,

The roots that I embraced blind.

Our lineage delves beyond my skin,

Growing, just as yours did, generations twined.

Gnashes choke me like unruly weeds.

I feel my mother's mosaic of ailments,

A reflection etched onto her, I mirror.

Our roots stitched in her skin,

Bleeding a blood akin to mine,

A little girl, once and always.

Grandfather's malice sewn into my heart,

His benevolence, a boy's fleeting art.

Roots entwine like rope around my neck,

Squeezing, as his parents did to him,

As he did to my father, a cycle grim.

Grandma's voice quivers in worry,

I see her in my doubts,

A garden overgrown with weeds,

Sewing my lips with hesitation,

Silencing me, stifling my breath,

Our girlhoods asphyxiated by blind hands.

In the quiet communion of familial toil,

This garden whispers of a deeper soil.

An ivy lingers at the foot of forever,

Binding mother, brother, sister in tether.

Maladies intertwine, a dense thicket of emotion,

Livelihoods woven by an unrelenting thread.

I may sever each strand with bloodied hands,

But these roots are endless, forever they spread.