The murders are silent now, no longer sleeping among the decapitated power lines, and empty fields dotted with glass bottles, small, unfortunate skeletons, dragon sand and a mortuary of trash bags, cleaning fluids and half-empty canisters of industrial lime. A bomb crater that looks like a giant, empty, eye socket, rusting metal hulks flaking badly in the golden-orange sun. Cloudy with red police lights, biting a badge, she dances in front of the surveillance cameras like the fox that you still can't, and will never catch. Surgical precision, admire her skill.
Star bathing under the night air, no bath, no ginger, allergic coconuts, ginseng, rosea, essential oils and lemon water. Eggshells, bright pink petals, a bowl of cold almond milk, smooth wood chairs, a carnival of umbrellas, and magical mushrooms growing wayward in a busted fish tank. Evil, glowing neon-green-ants building and creating cosmic tunnels and the royal red flags bleeding pale smoke high above the castle where she lives again.
Our storm garden, weeping, bent willows and long, loving eyelashes, sky-colored summer dress, dead, demon faces gazing from the forest of tortured slaves, gentle soil, the graveyard of witches, country stables, and her pallid, ghost-like Arabian horses that run elegantly in the black rain forever.