The Apple
I lay spread-eagle in a field orchard;
Surrounded on four sides by long-grown, green grass
On a dry, October's noon. Nonchalant.
I watched a small squirrel climb a tree, close;
The branches shaking violently still.
With a soft thud, a bespeckled fruit fell,
And I watched it drift past my outstretched palm.
I thought of a line I'd heard too often;
"No man is an island."- or so they say.
I came to see with what I was content:
Though I could lay in that soft aroma,
Alone with the sweet sound of wind through grass;
Though I enjoyed spending time all alone;
I am afraid of living life lonely.
Terrified of being the star ungazed;
Of leaving nothing behind but my words,
For words can and will always be challenged.
As I stared on all that is celestial,
The constellations of my soul aligned.
In my emotion, the grass became rye;
For whilst I sought to be Camus' Mersault
I was but Salinger's Holden Caulfield-
Painfully aware of the blades of grass;
Too faddish of their personalities,
Yet hurt more mentally by their absence.
Still, the hardest part of this loneliness,
Is living knowing it was my own fault.
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