That Last Stop Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

As I awoke
above what
was once a full
moon, November's
crows had crowned what
had become so soon; to be
the continuation, of this long
dark political night, yet beguiled
by a squeaking all engulfing snow
on a cold and mountainous reality.
The happenstance of big finance
and big commerce, and that
regressive, giant, M.I.C.
returning ‘their' hard cold
hold on the citizenry, through
a compromised democratic process
that ‘we', all now see, to be large and
endless and nowhere, in any sense that
any of US, do choose to be… I, could not
see that which I envisioned for me, any
where near me politically, or socially
or financially, nothing fashioned of
that ‘light' I held myself to be, or
see or sense; only seeing those
recurring nightmarish dreams
one ought not to dream. On
this November's daze, this
nightmare recharged is all I see
somewhere, there ahead of me…
This territory, mountains brown and
stained, shedding gray waters upon vast
fruitless plains; one neither or never more
to be, peaks blown aside, all infancy lost, life
to be simply gone off and far away… An endless
dull speckled gray from lifeless coast to coast, in
dreams once dreamt, of thought filled thinking
exposing; missed opportunity, after missed
opportunity with no way forward or out
and fast approaching that last stop.