Kidnapped

Just a place I end up sometimes . . . and I know others visit there too.

Something grabbed me by the ankle,
upended my balance
causing me to land flat on my back.
I could not catch a glimpse of the hooded assailant
that drug my body across concrete.
I struggled, but his grip was too strong.

An open hole appeared in the pavement,
and leaping into it,
he pulled me in to fall
feet first into a deep well.
Landing hard again,
I saw him in my peripheral vision
scampering away like a rat.

In unfamiliar tunnels I wandered,
where ghosts clung to the walls
afraid of my breath.
My body was unharmed;
my spirit clung to a bolt
along the rim of the hole.
It stayed above ground,
wondering how to mount a rescue.

In the maze of the underground,
breath comes haltingly
as if there is not enough air to last the night.
Shadows jump and play like lost children.
Fairy lights flick on and swiftly off again
to avoid discovery.
There are scratch marks on the walls
from those trying to claw their way out.

My footsteps echo as if belonging to someone
stalking my movements through black space.
They follow me as if I know the way out.
I do not.
I tell them to be silent
so I can listen for the sound of running water.
They mock me and pound the ground louder,
silencing my thoughts.

I look for a hand reaching downward to toss me a rope
so I can climb to the surface.
Instead, transparent hands appear and disappear
through a ceiling too high to reach,
too insubstantial to grab if I could stretch that tall.

Soft grey light bathes the tunnels that wind before me.
It is pointless using my voice.
I will be here until I am not.
Continuing to search also feels pointless.
Footsteps finally silent, I sit down on the cold surface.
Pointless.
An interesting word, I think.
Without point
Dull
A handle without a knife.

I cannot claim that this is tortuous
the way "the hole" is in a prison camp.
Though some caught down here for too long
could certainly go mad.
I can spend time asking why I was so caught by surprise . . .
or repeat affirmations hoping to spark a light
that will shine through a crack in the ceiling.
Or I can just wait.
This may just be one of those vivid nightmares
from which I will awake.

Author's Note

I like to have hope in my writings. But once an a while that eludes me. Don't let this depress you too much.

Reviews

[Sarah]

The description used in this poem was wicked. Such a visual poem, really allowing me to imagine I was there, in that hole, among the unknown. I really like the use of the word pointless and the connection to the handle without a knife. Such a perfect metaphor that I had never thought of before. Beautiful write!

[Marianne Rose]

Thank you Sarah- yeah, it felt wicked, good word to use, and I'm glad the visuals helped you imagine the place- though I wouldn't wish for anyone to join me there. Also glad you liked the pointless part- the mind likes to at least pass the time exploring words when feeling otherwise stuck. Thanks for your interesting reactions and reflections- it's fascinating to me where a reader goes with a writing like this one. Appreciate you reading and reviewing it.

[Inject Positivity]

It felt like I was walking in another world which is unknown and unfamiliar... Sometimes we walk in those places even when we are awake, you have presented it with vivid imagery of how the place looks like and how terrible it is to be tied down in invisible chains... I have been in a situation like this so many times and I can feel despair in your words...

Hopeful people are not those who is happy all the time, but the one who sees life's both sides, feel the both parts and still hope for a new day... And I know you are one of the the most hopeful person... I know you'll win through God's help...

Sincerely
Dhiman

[Marianne Rose]

Thank you especially for that message about hope- it's true, hope is meaningless to those who have never known despair . . . I know you have been down those dark corridors yourself, and understand how like a nightmare it can be when you want to wake up and can't quite. But even Mother Teresa reported that she had seasons of the dark night of the soul, and dry seasons when she didn't feel God's presence. She just never gave up doing the work she was meant to do. Every day is a new opportunity to help someone less fortunate, someone who is really, as she said, Christ in his distressing disguise. So I'll sleep tonight, and get up to do the work before me, and eventually these cloudy days will pass. Thank you, my friend.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this reminds me of being just under the surface of waking, caught in that nightmare, being pulled down while part of me struggles to open my eyes...
and madness is applying the pressure, and i keep fighting for that sane moment to pull me into the next day, as i wonder if i am ever going to get there.

[Marianne Rose]

Thar's a great reflection and insight into this poem. i'm glad you could relate to it . . . I feel a bit like I'm caught in Ursula LeGuin's Lathe of Heaven, where the waking world is so closely tied to dreaming that both are real; it's hard to tell which is which. Thanks for taking the time to read and offer your reflections. It helps.