Black Pot
by Sam M. Phillips

Chaos coffin confusion,
A dripping demon destiny,
Dished out
Yet wished not,
A black pot
Screaming at itself,
Cleaning out for health.

A holistic terror,
Trading a wading pool of sick slush
For plush pillows,
Haunting willows dangle,
Branches entangle
And wrangle peace from its grasp.

The last hope for more destroyed,
A phantasm deployed
To deceive and conceive a pattern to fate,
Too late
To understand or decipher the cryptic cross,
The growing moss covers the stone in time,
A slick slime that adds gross texture
And vexes the venture.

So unsure of direction and connection,
A coddled concoction,
The destruction of self and others,
The smoky haze that smothers,
Drives us all in vain,
Unable to tame a dancing compass,
The false trespass,
Into uncharted lands,
The black hands pull,
The loose strands still there to tease out
And turn it about.

Now lost and unadorned,
A shapeless mass,
A crass morass,
A dreadful pass,
Full of jagged rocks and green mist
On which it must subsist,
The black pot
Now missed,
Not knowing itself,
Or anything else.

***

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