An Abstract Engimatist Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Communicating
sums up, in an
understanding
difficulty; living like
being summoned up, or
in a firm resistance towards
learning; think, in a neo-division
of what a market's harvest means…
Crowds, of possibilities laugh, at that
electronic sage, birthing stillborn journals
whispering, syllables into darkness, and
occasionally one bough bows, too such
a loss, as in war; to touch the flood of
blood spilled, while one is not straight
thinking, the minutiae senses, what to
gesticulate implies, in a mind crushed by
hedge funds of interrupted conversations
lingering, on a quivering filament, of an
over imaginative abstract thought…
Static's twinkling creates magnetic
essence, numbers lost and lone in a
sunlit foyer; pen in hand, my reflection
held in an image's echo, languishing in
a café window, in a shadowy whimper
fading as the light falls, a somewhat
troubling and problematic view…
Anticipating one's Pavlovian drool
in the excitement, of what is truly
irrational, and begs an explanation...
Torrential resignation reigns; this lame
aftermath of apathy silhouetting what
illumination sought, as anonymity is
smothered in oblivious smiles while
snaring one's immortality and
extinguishing the rest, of
one's inner-space…