The stars on nailpolish
a piece of the universe.
The stars like glue
on a black paper
alive, burning,
glowing, ethereally.
Clouds by the cloudmaking
machine, go somewhere to die.
I draw with my pencil, on the sky,
written pencil thoughts
philosophy.
Berries in the bushes
are poisonous
and red.
In her hands, they lie,
covered in blood is the wolf.
Lizzard, in her home, with
papers filled with poetry
and old glasses and pencils.
Outside in the garden, she sits,
ghost on bench, like the photo
of the woman ghost on the graveyard,
sitting on a bench. She burns slowly
like a will o the wisp, in the swamp.
Certain harbingers of death.
She´s blonde and has sunglasses
and a parcel, from a friend.