Light at the End of the Funnel

By JB Mulligan

The flat and pallid path to all horizons

narrows to the domed demise

of an ashen, ill-lit sky.
Light breaks through the drear overhead

sometimes (enough to remember, anyway),

and stains the jagged dirt

(that once the sky was washed, translucent,

the distant rim aglitter

in a swirl toward the center).
A small, round, extinguishing pupil

reflected in an oily puddle

looks upon itself extinguish

above and in the center of

a bland landscape

broken by scattered clumps

of spiked, decorative flowers

and mounds of bones, worn

like sand-whipped stone.
It widens, as astonished

by its overripened emptiness

in image and self,

a loathing Narcissus

bereft of petals and roots;

then blinks in spasms of uneasy sleep.
Wind stumbles, cursing and gasping,

haunted ghost of a painted past.

An imaginary hermit

flagellates lazily, feeling the slow

moist trickle down his back

like rain from a warmer time.

Each drop thuds to earth.

It is a music.



Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing