A letter to me

In the clock-tick of the ashy main scent of sleep 

or the silky touch of dear solitude,

one teardrop rises my sand,

and your embrace trough my thoughts flies.

Then all my desires, dreams dance

in their longing, soft, ball.

And sleepy white pigeons wake up

with a song about that lily delight

If I then listen to the paths of my forest deep

I will feel the whisper of the leaves,

These are your eyes coming furtively

in which the warm fire is crackling.

© 8 hours ago      

Not True

Miss. Poison,

slide into these cracks

I will not fade into her ajar white door

or look at her two panes, any more.

Closing my eyelids,

melting your notes,

thousands of fingers

from my pillows,

act into the dust.

The trail

In the autumn woods

golden colour leaves rustle

white crumbs on the mud

Maybe it is happiness

Those blue eyes
you will nowhere find.

Strings of shiny brown hair,
lightly winding
cuddling the air.
As she tenderly
turns on her toes,
she dances softly
with my sleep,
sparkling, bathed in the day,
brights in the mute greenery
in a giggle of teardrops

She has candles
in her troat
the white wrist.
She whiter
even more

into oyster wet
her two cheeks are moss
with waterfall slime

Illuminate luna,

In contour divine,

Anglers gave it to eyes,

Hunted by nights