Rhythms: The Abduction of a Written Word

Source: Pexels

by LJ Frank

A Written Word

an impassioned crux

pen dipped in India ink 

a passing shadow, finger stabbed

still, the word sensually exposed

spilling forth on the page

as if in a reincarnation 

or perhaps a resurrection

now exhausted from the birthing

standing, walking, i went down to the bedroom 

climbed onto the quilted stiff mattress, weary  

and drifted into a desired sleep,

a grandfather clock with inner workings revealed

struck 3 a.m.  

and a visitation arrived next to the bed

my mind’s eye blinked as if in recognition

quickly rising i walked up the steps 

to the loft that served as an office

and searched for the Word I had written

the pages of paper on a file cabinet were blank 

perhaps it was in the briefcase laying on the table

yet upon opening found it empty of the Word

i turned on the computer, perchance

but wait, again, nothing

how could this happen, I shook my head

breathing heavily, i began to perspire

what exactly was the Word i long to recall

how can an inspiration be so quickly forgotten

strange, i thought of Christopher Marlowe’s utterance 

that was like a sword

he experienced the misplaced Word in blood 

temperament and lust

but i am not Faust

so, i combed through the house 

and the endless shelves

books filled with bookmarks

 the clock now struck 4 a.m.

drops of sweat poured from my forehead 

and dripped down my cheeks

like tears bleeding, wanting of a sacrament 

what could i have done with the Word

a cry in angst

the unknown passed over my spirit

like the whistling of the wind through a window crack

was madness lurking around the corner?

i thought about the detours of my life

the connections and synapses,

the glories and vanities

was it all empty and futile

i sat down on a high back chair

still trembling closed my vision 

hours dissipated into a morning mist

until i heard a distant echo

ears strained to listen

someone calling my name

“What? Whose calling?”  

and, when i opened my eyes 

the sun’s light was showering the living space

amid the quiet there was a single loud knock 

on the arched wood door of my dwelling

gingerly i peered through a nearby window 

but couldn’t see who it was 

so, i opened the creaking door

where a cloaked figure stood 

looking like a Medieval monk 

and lowering the hood a face appeared

with deep brown eyes and furry brows

like a fine expressionist artwork 

painted with oil, 

a gentle smile emerged 

an angelic voice spoke just above a whisper,

“The Written Word you inscribed in ink

was awash in red and abducted 

in the middle of the night,

our sympathy for your loss,”

and upon uttering, the monk vanished.