Coin
by Sam M. Phillips

Prolific poet,
Individuality seeps through,
Personality seeks you,
To see and hear,
To be drawn near.

The placid plague,
The poisonous pulp
That surrounds pious pith,
Move with it
And sit inside,
A place to hide
And be consumed,
Subsumed
By my conscience.

Plaintive plan pipes up,
Moves to shut a door,
Need more
Vital force
To coerce
A larger creature,
A leeching preacher,
Beseeching neater pictures,
The witches inside me
Won’t let us be free.

The sound of sorrow
Burrows and borrows
Words and sorry sorts,
Distorts
A probing essence,
A semblance
That cannot bless us.

Pretend and beguile,
Stay a while
Under false pretence,
And seek to unmask
My meek trespass,
I’m cast down
Just as much as any other.

Smash and smelt,
The fluxing metal melts,
Smarting and starting to prove,
A message on the move
As if by chance,
A disapproving glance
Is all you use.

Smirk and annoy,
Pollute and deploy
A desolate inviolate ideal,
Something to steal
And reel in,
You call it kin
To it you cleave,
And then leave,
Not forming your own thoughts,
Just ones you’ve sought
And with bent brass coins bought.

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