Image for the poem The Zone

The Zone

The Zone

In a zone where the moon is pinkish-red
and trees speak in Mandarin
chuckles come from somewhere deep within the forest.

Here there is no time and there are no seasons.
Here it is unchanging.
People walk, zoned, and converse in monotone,
some staying together in groups.
Others go the the edge of the water.
Some just stand and look at nothing.
Some to walk into the water to forever disappear.
Some really have no clue.

Here and there one may see a comet or a meteor streak the night sky.
Some may even point and muscle out, “look, how pretty.”
They show not time as they streak by.
Only repetition.

The gathering brings them together.
Most at least.
Here they sit in a great, circular theater.
They watch a fire burning in the center.
They watch, oblivious to time
and there is not time here.
There is nothing here really.
Only the zone.

Maybe they have sat for years watching.
Watching the flames that never seem to die out.
Maybe they have sat only seconds.
We have no way of knowing how long they have sat or why.
No idea what they are thinking in their state of zone
if they are even thinking at all.

Where are they where there is no day?
Where the constellations are scattered pathetic?
Chuckles seem to come closer
and what will they even do when the chuckelers arrive
or does it even matter anymore?

All that seems to matter here is.....the zone.

Written by michaelslove2 (Michael S. Love)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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