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Estair Vermilion Poem
There was a woman, singing a sore song.
Soft savoury salvation in her tongue :
"Freedom for some, leave the others to rot,
A heron sent flying, and magpie sought."
There was a woman, with birds in her mouth,
Tweeting twinkling tunes, headed to the south.
Those folk listen, take word for opinion-
"All are built to solve the equation!"
There was a woman,- that's not right at all!
There is string and sticks attached round back,
And, there, a speaking gull stands oh so tall!
He squawks out loud talks, to impress the hawks,
And faced with words, prepares his attack.
Through his puppet's lips, holding her pitch forks.
Copyright © Estair Vermilion | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Estair Vermilion Poem
Water drenched my throat,
Sliding into the cracks.
Blood runs thicker from taps,
And quickly forms into a moat.
Water, unstable, unpleasable,
Nothing can stick to you.
Your liquid starting to brew,
Soaking my words and syllables.
I ship similes on a paper boat,
And it starts sailing many laps
To avoid all the upcoming attacks.
I'm not longed for staying afloat.
The cup may be more than half empty,
But I was made clumsy.
I'll dampen the air around my cyst;
So no fire can turn me to mist.
Copyright © Estair Vermilion | Year Posted 2026
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