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.
