by Emily Hamm
Driving through
The canopy roads,
The green hangs over.
Towering over the winding boulevard,
The blue sky is invisible.
Thick air fills my nostrils.
As the humidity takes over.
Windows down,
The canopy of green seems to breeze past my
face. Fresh breath is hard to find,
The air chokes me.
The smell of the swamp hits me first.
Breaking through the expanse of green,
I see a large body of still water.
Dark, menacing, bottomless.
Stepping out of the car,
I am drawn to the water.
Algae floats above on a crooked axis,
Whatever lurks below.
Sweat drips down the back of my neck,
The hair around my face frizzes.
What is underneath the dark water I see?
The creatures of the South,
I have heard so much about?
From land to sea?
The darkness tantalizes me once
more, A refreshing lake?
Seems too good to be true,
More syrup than lake.
The stickiness in the air,
Seeps into the water.
Slow moving
Movements rarely seen.
I cannot see,
But I feel.
I dreamed
A grip on my leg,
By a beast of great size.
No one to hear my screams in a fantasy,
In rural Tallahassee.
Dragged into the darkness,
I am now choking on water.
No longer sticky, the syrup slides into my throat.
After the water fills up my lungs,
I welcome the darkness.
An ancient friend.
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