The Dead Zone

There is a place I go that only few know
where nothing grows but palmettos.
Skeleton trees arch towards the sky
roots long scalded by the tides.
The sea washes in, the life washes out.

This is where things come to die.

I trip on fallen branches and bones picked clean
boots sucked down in the mire, stumbling between
sharp reeds and the web of a spiny orbweaver.
Carrion birds adorn the tree tops instead of leaves
watching me move through the Dead Zone.

This is where things come to die.
But it’s quiet here, and I don’t mind.


6 thoughts on “The Dead Zone”

    1. Yes, I go there for work. It is an area about 9 acres on an island that begun to flood periodically when a flapper valve broke in a tidal ditch. Over time, the flooding created this Dead Zone, which breeds salt marsh mosquitoes like you wouldn’t believe. It is only peaceful in the winter, when you aren’t being viciously attacked by a swarm so thick you can’t breathe. Thanks for reading and commenting. πŸ™‚

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