The Purloined Plot

A Self-Theft

Photo by Milad Fakurian on Unsplash

Here’s another poem from my 20-something year-old archives, freshly dusted off.

Audio recording (Hopefully better than Substack’s AI-voiceover):

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The Purloined Plot

For far too long, I have believed

That something other than myself

Speaks in whispers, falling dreams.

—I’ve answered all its calls.


I heard them as a younger man,

Though much louder and more frequent.

My young mind, in lesser wisdom,

Harped them with soulful squawks—

Heady, rude, barbaric yawps

—to mentors, teachers, kin.

Recognition sought

—and recollection, within.


Humming tunes, never heard

Painting scenes—far-off worlds,

Sculpted forms—exotic grace

Conceiving structures, stations, ships,

Hung in the void of outer space.

Singing sagas, ballads, stories

Of hard-won, faded glories

—unveiled before my gaze.


Another story that must be told

Evades my sight and grasp

As slithering echoes, nothing more.

A soft susurrus, hidden lore

that bids me clasp

with clumsy claws its untold yore.

—surely, the key I’ve sought.


Troubled sleep in later years

Revealed its edges, bounded fears

Clarity cloaked by tarnished glass and frame

which hold its portrait on the wall.

I’ll try, before the tale escapes.

Though many worms through it now bore.

—the dream slips further, even more.


I remember being thrown onto stone

And what surprised me more

Than the clash of brick on bone,

Than the physical trauma

—was the hell awaiting, a deeper drama…

Why not strike at the heart of this tale?

They led me out, after weeks, enchained

And dropped me on frosty grass.

My neck pressed onto icy wood

—no ceremony, nor last words said—


The axe was falling fast now,

Descending toward my neck

—the other villagers were next.

The bright, curved blade, the axe,

A metal pick to strum my lullaby—

—for now was time to sleep…


The pain, it lingered on my skin.

It seemed I’d woken up,

and wider dreams of wandering,

Visions of vacuous victory,

vanished—and left me pondering.


Feeling numb, with open eyes,

A golden ball rose through the ground,

And looking up, I found

Its amber light now everywhere,

Within my bones, upon my skin

—and fused with the air around.


Something stirred me, deep within.

Boom of thunder, soft spring rain:

The light that comes from earth and skies

Is the only thing that’s true.

You’ve let blank deeds parlay for you.

But true light is born within your eyes.

No clue of who had spoken

Was I still dreaming? Now awoken,

No one there.

No form to match that loving care

That shook my being, caressed my ears,

—and ironed out all of my fears.