Apple Island

Brick by brick I built a subtle, secure wall
around myself. The color of dried blood
became an illusive molecular mystery
that shaped the canvas of my psyche,
separating you successfully enough from
the benevolent fortress of ire and ardent
desire.

Who'd have thought that the maximum sentence
for dereliction would become an eternity? I
often write in my journal about you, sitting for
hours in solitude and introspection. The pages,
like pliable hypnotic poppies, prefer small talk
to romance, yet I accept the fact that matter has
begun to yield its innermost secrets.

What exactly is the evanescent reality mirrored
in the syntax of our words? Should it be believed?
Is it comprehensive enough to bear witness
without verging on being idolatrous? It isn't so
much the language but the tone of the expression
that risks misunderstanding. You say you love me,
from a couple of hundred miles away,

yet I can't grasp your hands, look into your eyes,
speak my pleasure in my feelings for you, without
remembering that love too can be betrayed. It's true,
I have a flair for stubborn silence, and you, for the last
word, but here among these pages there are no trust
issues, just the coping of something bigger than
ourselves,

brought line by line unto this book. I fear you as
much as I love you. The power to hurt me deeply is
within your reach. I carried a crate of apples yesterday,
and picked through them as my verbal powers failed.
My heart beating was almost at breaking point and then
I saw it, the fire energy within the blossoms. Warmth,
passion, offered me renewed strength.

With a penetrating gaze I was taken back to the apple
island, the mystical isle of Avalon where Celtic heroes
have found eternal rest. In my vision, I believed in fairy
tales and happy endings once again. I believed that true
love could overcome blind frivolity, and I believed that
courage could be splendid, making life experiences
unforgettable.

This is where obsidian rocks burst like bubbles, where
the shadowy corners of my mind found fulfillness and
illumination with your presence. This is where the bricks
fell as your words ran through my mind, your love, through
my heart. This is where impossibility found hope. And so
I ask you, will you not meet me in Iduna's apple orchard?
Asgard awaits us, under a brilliant rainbow.

Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be witch and a poet. (within the horror writing community).

Find more by Theresa C. Gaynord in the Author Index.

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