O. C. Woods (08/05/1981 / Rouhling)
The new pen writes only different vues heating icy papers
different tastes as the Sun explodes in words she cries
long is the time of the wait everlasting haste towards warmth again
I imagine how the color will strike your hair your skin
days dripping fast as poems turned into paper balls
sad to witness when no soul is worth these wordly efforts
Mr respected poet whispers and teaches
are dying days my friends instead of waisted necklaces? ?
can I spend hours explaining how I feel that color? ?
under the Stars even at night my fireworking armor
multiple paintboxes I've seen through the days to keep
where is the Black Cloud when temperature rises and slip? ?
I now find strengh smell the light paradise drawn
when the color shines vermillion...
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Vermillion by O. C. Woods )
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