Cold Dead Ground
Pleasure Beach off of the coast of Bridgeport, CT wears an old silence that reminds me of forgottenness, mismanagement and death.
Along one of the overgrown driveways that lead around what once was a great midway of an amusement park ( or maybe housing, I’m not sure – both were in the area) are a large group of mysterious dead trees. I wonder what killed them.
Dead trees scratching at the distant clouds above – broken limbs greyed, bleached from the humid sun and firce winter weather ripping holes in the memories of those who laughed, smiled, loved and cried under the once-mighty canopy of lush green. What is left of their skin lay in pieces littering the untouched ground.
Neglected, forgotten and old, the trees are serenaded into an endless slumber by hollow, icy winds of the Long Island Sound whispering their songs of death.
The trees reach toward the distant sky as if they were the dead souls of the island hopelessly clawing with their last breath of life from a rotting sarcophogus deep below the cold, still earth. Clawing to break out. Clawing from the grip of their long-forgotten death.
