Let it be all a lie

Autumn leaves hugged the two of them on the bench,

the edges of her coat rested in her hand clench.

He sought peace in her Indian summer.

He heard her reproaching whisper.

And what we will do now?

Now, when I'm just a rock where you'd sleep the sweetest

in the withered spring of mine nest.

Seduced are, that your lips with some other vanillas,

from long ago my shoulders are not your pillows 

and my leaves rustles do not wake up your gaze glow

Down the melodious golden plasma 

Between his palms shed eternal icicles shine.

A statue which loved

An iceberg on the horizon hid the garden.
I arrived led by swaying translucent blue trail.
My breath fogged engraved roses in the ice,
and the leaves were a mirror to a river above us.

I've found her grey, set in the centre,
that statue, asleep with deep, embedded lines,
covered by the veil of the crescent moon,
her gaze melted the snow.
She hugged the cross with her hands on her chest.

I placed my palms on her attire,
and caressing her arms, whispered,
Trust me, please, one more time.

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.