Demestrius The Vintner Poem by Ebi Robert

A skied stream tail.
Just like a cry in a con-tail,
Wherein the wisp wraps the Arc-wisp.
A Vintner sells for a thousand year,
leaving a thousand aged gulping the grapes,
portion and pipping, from fruit to freak.
wifeless tents in winter days,
all the same in summer days.

For winter, they say, 'typhoon trails shivered skins'
and bibbing obedience, the medic wins.
Then as the Vintner inhales grapes of incense flame of winery.
The bibber chants and hails.
'Am home, am home today'.

The hills sing of the hunter's return
whose return is to the vintner and not his virgin.
And he returns not with his name.
Yet, the hunter who prefers this world,
is save with skin secured.
But the bibber shall ask;
when free was he who drank-
breads, gasses and tuck?
All eaters are drunk, so they talk.

Our Merchant never hunts.
Though he knows all the spirits,
he never feels the thorns.
But, for as many teeth that shifts
and many deprived fees,
Demestrius the vintner is more possessed in spirits.