Poetry

Christopher R. Phillips

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Add some more the score to laid. Torn old skin hair turned gray.
Being sick, sorry, ashamed, got the want and now enslaved.
Cannot sleep in your bed for scaly serpents shed their skin.
Dreaming thoughts lost the past. Craving, slaving to make it last.
Eyes burning through heart inflamed. Growing cavity gravity decayed.
Feeding off the larvae’s feces, boils, pustules, a new species.
Gaping wounds of bloody flesh. Far too much is much too less.
Hellish hounds of devil’s den. Where have they all been?
Icy harpy’s talons rage. Magic made by the mage.
Jokers juggle fancy rings. Players gamble all their things.
Kites fly to the sky. Angels live and never die.
Locked emotion chained. Soul and Spirit gained.
Mass of chaos seeping through all our veins.
Naming rings shine so bright. Rings of power bring only night.
On the back of a unicorn, a new child of light is born.
Phasing razors, laser beams, raging rivers, lakes and streams.
Quaff the sleeping potion and sloop across the ocean.
Raising hell on Poseidon’s shore. Reciting old forgotten lore.
Symbols on the inside brain, disassembled in pain.
Time is tested. Time is wasted. When time stops, only blankness.
Undying pain, itching desire, wanting to go just a little higher.
Violent lion, baby crying, whomever wins is only lying.
Worms eating out the maimed, spitting out the blamed.
X marks the spot to the buried gold. Too bad you can’t dig, too old.
Young may appear outside. Look in deeper, see what you find.
Zipping through life has come to an end. Never all things gone and soon you’ll be dead.

Christopher R. Phillips is a musician of 23 years (guitar/vocals), photographer of 15 years (freelance), poet/lyricist of 27 years. Christopher just finished his last class with EGCC for an Associates of the Arts degree and plans to be a curating artist.