The Mission Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

I digest
the sorcery
to a degree
to reason
to upgrade
the primal swing
from another fallen
tragic star of the gods…
Illusions of grace mime
misplaced emotions
and exposed secrets cast
proof, that no one believes
when the breath of the dark
influences one's triumphs…
Peccact images go cold
as pity runs, for
the ultimate decision
of this new year
cannot be made
by the cage owner's
obnoxious and
indignant ways…
The craftsman's tools build
the doors on the moon's outer
wastes, and the negative in each passion
arouses the reason, to continue moving toward
the Antarctic; loosing the smell of pathetically
inclined assumptions and suppositions…
A conference holds up nothing
as you will be contacted
in the most unusual of ways
while the cosmos consumes
the unseasonal and unbelievable news
that humanity is amending it's ways…
Have a wonderfully enticing New Year!