At Last

by Murray Eiland

Friends and family gather
Phantoms in flesh, bidding farewell--
Faces painted with hollow smiles,
I pretend to hear only whispers of gratitude.

I step off the stage, the curtain falls,
My last breath slips into the void,
Silence soothes, darkness cradles--
I hope dreamless sleep awaits.

The body cools, stiffens,
Regrets dissolve like mist,
Happiness, triumphs, all dim to shadows,
Yet the soul moves, unburdened, forward.

An unseen hand pulls me, relentless,
Through the endless black, faster, faster--
Memories reel like flickering tapes,
Sights, sounds, tastes swirl,
Good and bad—indistinguishable now, a seamless thread.
​
Ahead, a pillar of light
Blazes cold, its fire searing yet distant,
No shadow escapes its reach,
Not even the darkest corners of my buried self.
Speed quickens, yet I remain distant,
The light draws nearer but never close.
I stare into its fierce glare,
Rooted, immobile.

Surrounded by dark, transparent,
I reach for meaning, for place,
But then it hits me--
I am nowhere.
I am nothing.

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Murray Eiland is a speculative fiction writer and an archaeologist.