The Boundary Zone

November 15, 2008
By Michael Peters, Cincinnati, OH

There is a dark land
deep down below,
known by many a man,
but where few choose to go.
There, men are dwarfed by the spires,
made from rock tall as towers,
turned black by the fires,
from the smoke of countless hours.
The ground is covered in ash
and always will be
to the world an unhealing gash.
It is there that lies a throne,
Made from blood and bone,
cast upon gray, cold stone.
That is where he can be found,
the ruler of the land,
a place where screams are the only sound,
a place so damned,
it can only be known
as The Boundary Zone.

In this land of fires
is where he must test your soul.
He can make true your desires,
but for one goal.
When he looks it to see
what kind of man you be.
If your soul needs to be clean,
if there’s evil seen,
he steals your flesh and bone;
the flesh to feed the fires,
the bone to widen his Zone.
He’ll use all that remains
to enlargen his domains.
But if, when he peers,
truly you be a man of virtue
he lowers a platform with grinding gears
to a place where none can hurt you,
a place without pains or fears.
But few men are so great,
most destined to the worser fate.

For those trapped I feel sorrow
for neither will they see the moon
or sunrise of tomorrow,
just their perpetual doom.
There is no day, just endless night.
The glow from the fiery flames
is their only light.
The blood in their veins,
no longer flowing,
only their souls linger.
Their hearts love no longer showing
just their heated anger
toward the man who binds them,
whose piercing stares grinds them
into beings of hate,
beings of evil.
For evil is the perfect mate
for someone so cruel,
someone who’d choose to rule
The Boundary Zone.

But I am reminded
of why these souls damned
have been trapped, binded
to this god-forsaken land.
While these men were alive,
how many looked past the need
to by any means survive,
losing themselves to their greed?
But are they to blame?
Or are they just pawns in some,
some higher game?
Yet there were those good,
who did what none would.
But who am I to care,
to with this story share?
I tell this gruesome tale
Because I’m the one who knows who’ll fail.
When it’s their turn around,
to be pulled underground,
to pull back the veil.

I am the one who sits on a seat,
Made of blood and bone,
Who’ll you’ll one day meet.
But when you kneel before my throne
Lets hope that you’ve lived well,
Or else in my Boundary Zone
You’ll be forced to ever dwell.

The author's comments:
I wrote this poem in my 9th grade year. What acuatlly inspired me to write this was Golden Earring's song "When The Bullet HIts The Bone". I dont particularly love this, but I heard it on the radio and for some reason the words "bone" and "twilight zone" got stuck in my head. Then I got home and wrote this. Its not my best poem, but its deffinitely my favorite.

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