The Zone
The zone is a crease.
Like a dimple of haunting.
Diving into the wild sensation.
Feeling prickly.
Pine trees grow at night.
There is a vampire.
Takes all the pinecones to his nest.
Spiraling like October does.
The zone is a person.
Like me except she is a ghost.
Or worse.
Eats worse things.
They grow at night.
We know because,
The prickling.
Like rabid spiders.
A place under construction.
All the time, being excavated.
By wild, mysterious beings.
Like me, but worse.
They grow at night.
Pop up by morning,
And no one believes me when I tell them…
You can’t cross there.
Someone always does.
And gets eaten by a pine tree.
Growls and snarls.
In this nothing-world.
The zone.
Is under construction.
It’s not the place.
It’s us.
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