Sonnet Nr. 3
Afraid to dream for saving grace I cry
To bear me swiftly back to waking lands
The brooding seconds will not pass me by
But scorch like fire my unblemished hands.
The ironed sheets do not support my head
But rather fixate my unresting hands.
Which thrash about like an unravelling thread
I wish I’d died in burning desert sands.
The faceless terror lives outside my room.
It shreds the nights as I do rinse my face.
Its weeping noises drown repose in doom.
And once again I cry for saving grace.
Its sweetish odour seeps right through the walls
Arise, arise the jelly monster calls.