My wounds

My wounds licked

The sticky sea air

Ziket a short poem structure in English literature 

Run My Lamb Run

The thick night was slowly falling over Vietnam.
Sparks caught the endless tones of the waves under the swinging raft.
We sat at the table, her and me.
My eye woke up the constant glow of the phone,
That lamb called.
Her breasts went down and up,
as deep sighs turned themselves into pearls, in the throat.

Before that day, under the azure sky melted balm,
I felt her hard palm over my shoulder staves.
The night ink relived the craft,
she will come, tell her to not come.

Now, her lashes ponds reached the last light of calm,
into the darkness deep down.
She did not notice me,
I gazed into my flying moth.

Run, my lamb, run,
from the knives of the cotton castles,
the dusk towers of which stone on the stone does not rest,
and the dust on the lips,
over the harvested daffodils,
towards singing chants of village girls,
above the path of dried apricots

No care no worry

On a blue-green field, I planted one bright crimson rose.
The extracted honey has covered the throat,
to me, seduced by her radiant beauty,
so I gave her all on her volition.

While night clouds rested on the sunrise,
one withered yellow leaf of hers wrinkled my forehead,
and I addressed her, angry, censorious gaze from my bud.

A long time after, the grass did not cast my rests.
Nor the rose scent was reaching me out,
because of the nearby conifer forest.

Weeds began to grow around the chestnut navel
to hide her all despised.
Then one morning, two youngs discovered the blue-green field,
and hand in hand passed by the bush shield.

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