Last Of All Tomorrows Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Sinister
shadow
mangling
crestfallen
at the climax…
that, fallen angel
dressed; to mask a
fluxed entanglement
stony and porous with
an outer side, turned in
to avoid the acidic rains.
Both mythical and mystical
arduous; the slain cold nerve
that controls the entrance to the
world. ‘He, ' given of ink and oil in
angles; painted and clothed with
shrouds… ambiguous narrow men
draped in alabaster skins make rains
pour that imbibe the light, making no
attempt to hear within the restricting
trails of what is perceived to be the
last of all tomorrows…