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saintghost.bsky.social
lichtbringer
@saintghost.bsky.social
1.1K followers 850 following 1.9K posts
Anna | 1991 | Germany | gemini ⋆☀︎. | scorpio ⏾⋆.˚

hexerey & hochgebet ꒰ა♱໒꒱

angel at the abattoir // patron saint of moonstruck girls･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ☾

somewhere between psychotic and iconic ౨ৎ

all words by me
unless stated otherwise ﾟ･* ⋆ ✩ ˚ ｡⋆ ✩
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saintghost.bsky.social
But DM has really good ones, too 💖
Trend it Up (DM) Pretty in Tint Fruity Lip Stain
November 14, 2025 at 5:28 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
Lip stain/tint is like lipstick but MUCH more liquid & the color doesn’t sit ON your lips but kinda really seeps INTO the skin. Lasts much longer. You can eat & drink & it stays where it’s supposed to. One of my favorite ones is MOONSHOT Performance Lip Blur Fixing Tint
MOONSHOT Performance Lip Blur Fixing Tint in some shade of red
November 14, 2025 at 5:27 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
For #PoemsAbout #Desire ✨

for @thebrokenspine.co.uk
& @alanparrywriter.co.uk

I know I need to learn how to edit but this is another one of those that just burst out of me in a fountain of blood and snot. It kind of had to get out, I guess.
Desire She asks me, what do you want, and I say I need a raging cattle gun between my eyes. I say, I want to go crazy, like real crazy, not this choked silent suffering but a scream that will burst every seam-crazy, neon-crazy, heroin-crazy, woman with her head in the oven-crazy. The kind with confetti and ambulances. Chalk outlines. Hot as brimstone, emergency room-bright. Look here, I want to open this here window and jump the fuck right out of it. I want to cut deeper. Darker, more demented, more desperate. I want to hemorrhage. I want you to have to sew me back together from scratch, without all of the mistakes, the failure, the fear. Twenty-one stitches is not nearly enough. You ask me, why, and I say, desire desire desire. I am going mad with desire. for him for love for belonging for applause for a hand around my neck for fame for attention for death for cheating death for outliving for the blood of christ For the rush of losing your mind. The desire to cross that line. I want to be the lady in the park that coos at the doves and flaps her arms like wings. I want to dangle from the precipice like a leaf in October, I want to be a tightrope dancer across all of your edges. I want to be that patient on the ward who barks the whole day long like a frenzied dog. I want to stick needles into my arm until I squeal like a porcupine. I want my veins fat with methamphetamine. I want a harder door, a bluer bruise, a more brutal concussion. I want to bash my head against this wall until I laugh again. I want to tear this room down this skin this padded cell a world a girl a wound that hurts like fire that is too sharp to touch to kill to feel to fuck. I want to leave myself behind to become everybody else. I want to be a poet I want to be a lover rockstar priest saint cult leader a goddamn work of art I am possessed by desire and empty as all hell.
November 14, 2025 at 2:00 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
Get to know your followers
10 random things you like

Passing to:
@readingraindoe.bsky.social
@spacer.bsky.social
@anntigone.bsky.social
10 Random Things I Like 1. Dogs! Deer! Llamas and alpacas! 2. Tarot cards although I still haven’t figured out how to read them 3. Atmospheric black metal 4. Lip stain (100 x better than lipstick!) 5. My cheap old guitar with the even cheaper amp that randomly turns on the distortion sometimes (it might be haunted) 6. Korean skin care 7. Fancy & overly sweet coffee (pumpkin spice, gingerbread latte, white macadamia vanilla cinnamon cupcake, you name it) 8. Velvet skirts and dresses 9. Woodwick candles 10. Concerts!!
November 14, 2025 at 11:44 AM
saintghost.bsky.social
#completethehaiga 123
#haiga #haiku

@completethehaiga.bsky.social ✨
tumbling autumn leaf only in the falling do i feel alive
November 10, 2025 at 5:06 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
For #PromptCombo #Storm ⛈️✨

for @rfsmith.bsky.social
Each Word Is A Lantern You’ve Dropped In The Sand You drift on a little boat that can only think about sinking. It does not know which side is heaven and which is sea. It’s all the same, blue, blur, the way you cannot know the difference between the voice of God or that of small birds. Everything sings, especially when we are drowning everything is music, a language we bend closer to hear. The boat smells of crushed violets. There is a storm coming, supposedly, but the mirror’s surface is undisturbed. And the boat is angry at the storm for not pulling it under the tideline. Because sometimes we want that collision, that sharp cleave of a before and an after but here we are still, in the middle, between the heartbeat of the waves where we trace a lineage of salt stains from one dim star to the other. There is a semblance of yourself forced to sail half-empty around the great ice caves where the glitter of their echo has you baptized with the silence of half-being, half-not. Maybe the storm was that sigh you had let escape through the vault of your lips. And the weight of the moments is flitting through the church of your hands like a fish. This morning, the revelation had been out of print. So you sewed the glimmering moon into the hem of your billowing skirts to take a fire with you, to strike a small match in the night. Each step is a day passing, an era, a life; the legs still bewitched just thinking of fins. All the lighthouses with their restless eyes were looking for you across the periphery, sweeping the coastline for something, some moral in the wreck of yourself. The body itself is a shrine upon which the storm’s breath stitches its meaning, the cold wind that silvers our secrets, the water that hollows you out until only one light is left, until the altar is ivory bone. The cracked planks glisten with the ocean’s white wedding froth, who is married to the deep in us all, the darkness where the wilderness sleeps.
November 8, 2025 at 5:21 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
For #PoemsAbout #LockedDoors ✨

for @thebrokenspine.co.uk
& @alanparrywriter.co.uk
Creature What is kept behind locked doors grows fangs and eyes. The virginal offspring of goat and lion or an insect born from the saliva of a cuckoo. These things relish the underbelly, the mother-of-pearl darkness; they feed on secrecy, dust motes, and swallowed gold keys. The things we want to know not know us best. What is kept behind this door is screaming itself a new throat. Nobody saw it crawl into there; they must have already swiped the immense swish of blood, the writhing trail of dead. The shuffling across the hallway gets decidedly more agitated. There are crafty and deceitful animals that never walk in a straight line. Somebody vomits, no nurse ever appears to clean it up. And no nurse ever opens the door. But the door is not really closed, not completely: it is just waiting for you to find a way of sublimation, to arrow your bones through the vacuum eye of its keyhole, to make yourself small enough to fit through. The thing behind the locked door has a voice like a nail bomb. It sounds like something is being slaughtered, quartered, going to war on itself. The archaic power in the intense wordlessness of a howl, a bird that eats rose thorns and thistles. Somebody bleats back like a motherless lamb. I try to imagine how far you have to go away from yourself to end up in a place like that. I imagine something with horns, possibly hooves, cloven ones, obviously. A fly-flicking tail. Maybe branched antlers, calico manes, or even charred wings; the leathered skin of its countless victims flapping uselessly and breathless against bell-tower stone. Griffon claws, chimera tongue. A harpy licking the finger bones of dead little children like sour lollipops. Or the screeching surprise of Bluebeard’s last wife or that of one of her many predecessors on discovering a lineage of lies. Even from the decrepit little fenced-in courtyard, you can hear the thing thrashing behind the closed door. It does not waver in its manic clamour; it’… golden wool. Madness is a godless temple and we’ve all gone inside to pray. The thing behind the door needs our silence to grow louder. The door listens for us just as we listen to it. Shadows need an absence of trust to thrive and every lock is a promise not kept. The door has an infinite soul, of course, made of rust, nails, and splintered wood. The tense clenching of your mouth when you’re alone in your head, the shakes that you get coming down hard. Or the shakes that get you when you leave the door open and the windows a shrine gaping wide. The rooms you don’t go into are modern bestiaries with teeth hacked into rubber walls to x off the days until the manticore is tamed, until the room is not a room but a tomb. The only proof of an existence between fever and fable, a hieroglyph to read with your scars. A small bird that fights kelp-furred river horses. A fish that appears when the silvered Pleiades decline. An animal so wild that no hunter dare approach it for fear of learning to sing. Three days later, she sits across from me at the dinner table, asking me to pass the ketchup. She laughs like skewered sunshine, precariously slanted, the little bell peal of those who have been silk-sedated to the sky. There is whispered talk of hard drugs, of mental overload, of an infant daughter taken away. But mostly, there are whispers of worry, a real tangible fear of who will be locked out next from the beeline, out of themselves, a coagulated snarl, out of time. Because one thing is for certain, as surefire as death: Anybody could grow horns in a place like this, anybody could pass through a door. Medieval beasts An antlered lion(?), a unicorn, a monkey, orange butterflies, a green bird Image found on Pinterest
November 7, 2025 at 1:22 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
#CurrentlyReading

‘The Vegetarian’ by Han Kang

“Suddenly it felt to him that he had grown old, had experienced everything there was to experience, and that not even death held any fear for him anymore.”

#BookSky 📚 #books
Book cover for “The Vegetarian” by Han Kang. The white wing of a bird on what looks like a red-veined leaf.
November 6, 2025 at 7:07 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
#completethehaiga 122
#haiga #haiku

@completethehaiga.bsky.social ✨
spinning silk tissues to catch the dawn’s dewy tears soothing spider-song
November 3, 2025 at 7:41 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
#sensewrds 118 [fractured, correspondence, undone] ✨ #poetry
Communiqué Dearest, Your return letter never arrived. I imagine it must have grown wings sailed past me, somehow, low down on the south wind to Madagascar or the Solomon Islands or Greece. Missed me somehow by just a slim sliver of moon or hair or spider’s breath. Sometimes when you’re closing your eyes whole empires crumble and rise. It must then have ended up in the greed-calloused clutches of witches, transformed into a golden-hooved fallow deer, now picking the red rancid apples from moist September graves. It could even have turned into glass, by some accident of spellwork or other, long broken into moth dusted glimmers; a million tiny pieces of silver stuck in the coattails of unwitting passersby. It must have been snatched up by herons, mistaken for the swirl-water shimmer of a big and floundering fish that exchanged the stream for the sky. I can easily imagine all this and the labyrinthine sleepwalk of pure chance but the one thing that my mind cannot make up is the inconceivable myth of your quiet.
November 2, 2025 at 7:34 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
For #PromptCombo #DreamLogic ✨

for @victoriaspires.bsky.social

A poem about a recurring nightmare and how dreams bleed into reality and vice versa.
Nursery The cow jumps over the moon and the little dog laughs. Everything is as blue as crushed delphiniums, harvestbells, the finespun veins of God’s translucent wrist, sylph and spider’s silk, atropine. The languid drip of ketamine, like drops of dew wisp-watering the surface of the naiad’s brook. The slow crawl of propofol that makes me laugh; I count down from infinity and disappear. In the dream I forget everything and time becomes a swimming pool, turquoise molasses and gossamer tulle, meaning nothing, shiny as quartz. In the dream I forget that you must die. There is a road that I must cross, long and twisted like licorice. There is a veil through which I must reach like a birch bough for your outstretched hand. And when our fingertips touch, I remember and the remembering is as quick and absolute as a headshot or a deer crashing into the glittering windshield of your car. Something like icicles shattering, or teeth, or the thin viscera between you and reality. And this is what I do in the dream: I scream because that is all I can translate this terror into: the pure white flash shock of grief, the utterly wordless rupture of every seam I have ever stitched in the dark. The cow jumps over the moon right into the mouth of the meat grinder. The cow’s calf is taken away from her and she howls and bellows until her vocal chords rip and spew blood. The calf has two heads so it is sainted right between its long-lashed eyes with the hard red rapture of a cattle gun. The little dog does not laugh anymore. The little dog has been abandoned, kicked, left to starve to a gaunt ghost in the streets. The little dog is a puppy in a plastic bag suffocating on the bottom of the trash container. You die a thousand times and I must watch. Around every corner that I stumble, I find your body slumped over like a praying child with your head resting on the cold stone floor where your brain has trickled a halo. And sometimes I continue screaming even after I have woken up.
November 2, 2025 at 3:51 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
For #PoemsAbout #Blood ✨

for @thebrokenspine.co.uk
& @alanparrywriter.co.uk

I know it’s very, very long but it just bled out of me, I guess. As always, my heartfelt gratitude to everyone who has the patience to read this. Thank you.

Busy today but will read everybody else’s over the weekend. ♡
Snow Is The Blood Of Ghosts There wasn’t any blood when I died. Not a single drop, actually. Nobody screamed or cried or clutched at their pitying little hearts as if they really gave a shit, because that is what you do at funerals, grieve in between making shopping lists in your head and snarking at Aunt Carol, because what the hell is that woman wearing again, roadkill couture? There were no sirens or ambulances or gas station wreaths, not even a wizened old undertaker, who, with a grave expression, listens to the downpour of inevitable platitudes as if he hasn’t heard all of this drivel a million times before. Who is, literally, bored to death. There was only the silence and the absence of your hand on my shoulder, where it had lingered for a moment and then disappeared, as if it was a little bird that had perched there, the last remaining specimen of some obscure rare species, who, upon alighting, vanished into extinction. Unceremoniously crossed off the taxonomy tree, erased from the natural history books, with nobody batting an eye. And nobody will miss this bird’s quivering chirp because nobody has ever heard it before anyway. There was only the unpacking of a suitcase I knew I would never pack again, the zipper faintly whining like a homeless kitten, the teeth of a suture becoming unclenched. There was only pressing play on a song I knew I would listen to for the last time (but which is still malignant in my head like a tumor, deargodpleasemakeitstopmakeitstop). There was a dress and shoes, never worn. There was no pleading with God, no grand gestures of martyrdom, no rainbow oil spill of blood and guts for things that mattered. There was only that feeble and paralyzed thought in my head, sweet Jesus, come on and do it so we can get this over with. The pain is not in how the axe severs your neck but in how long it is taking to fall. In how long it takes the executioner to get ready. One last sandwich, one last cigarette, one last fuck… because I thought I was so translucent people could not see me anymore, because I thought that when I opened my mouth no sound would come out besides the gray-dust hum of static of an empty house. Because ghosts cannot talk, ghosts cannot cry; their grief is as silent as the emergency room after the flatline, after the lights have gone out, after the bereaved have gone home to late night TV and porn. My psychologist would say I was dissociating but I was simply a body starved for the touch of another. A fire that has burned itself out, a throat reckoning with a lifetime of ash. What remains after you have left yourself, after you have brushed shoulders with the indescribable, after you have grown too large for your body and thus collapsed into a nothing so heavy you cannot carry the consequences. It was in how I thought I saw you behind every blurry corner but each time it was just a stranger and each time I was made to remember that you were just a stranger, too. It was in the empty hotel room with the nightstand I was sure was haunted, because that one drawer kept opening up on its own like a spectral mouth, trying to tell me something important I could not understand in my embarrassing humanness, in my stubborn resistance to truth. It was in the silvery fairy vomit glitter I scrubbed from my eyelids, in the pink lipstick that had never left a mark on anybody’s neck, had never found a place on any map to draw up home, to insist on my existence, to prove that I was there. It was in the battered plastic bottle that I used as an ashtray, half full with instant cancer yellow liquid, that, to the confusedly staring man on the other balcony, probably looked a whole lot like piss. It was in the way the lorazepam melted as bitterly on my tongue as a psalm that you do not believe in anymore. It was in the way you looked right through me. It was in knowing it was over before it had even begun. But I did not make a spectacle out of myself. … shattering of flesh and bones, an explosion of veins, brains, and internal organs, just the light falling of snow on a ruin, the rustle of dried moth dreams crumbling to poems in your palms, the small pause before a last step, a last breath, a last word unsaid, the faint glow that hovers near those who have crossed that unseen line. It is not a scream but a whisper, a finding yourself where you really are, a state of being so damn pure and clean, of getting down to where the secret is, of knowing the true name of yourself, a wing unfurling in a small church. It is traveling further than you thought you could and not caring who remains to tell the story; you, a moon, the leaves, the hymns of small birds. It is when we have been ground down, stripped bare, when only that final essential thing is left, that last light that is then extinguished with a sigh and passes, silently, like wind through the boughs of the great trees that hold everything and nothing and teach all things about letting go of themselves.
October 31, 2025 at 1:43 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
#completethehaiga 121
#haiga #haiku

@completethehaiga.bsky.social ✨
each wish dangles from a tiny parachute dandelion seeds
October 29, 2025 at 4:07 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
I think he sometimes looks so funny when he’s really soaked to the bone — he has these really thin stick legs then and all the fluff on top and he just looks like an oversized water rat 😭😂❤️
October 29, 2025 at 3:50 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
Albert got a little wet during his hike!

#photography #dogs #autumn #rainydays 🍂
A medium-sized mixed breed dog with long black fur is standing on the leaf-covered forest floor looking at the camera; he is soaked to the bone and now looks slightly like some kind of oversized water rat. Thank God he is wearing a little black jacket!
October 27, 2025 at 4:29 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
perfect dating app bio for me

“use me with care and never leave alone” 🥺
A white wood wick candle in a jar with the inscription “Home Fragrance Clean Cotton use me with care and never leave alone”
October 21, 2025 at 4:48 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
#completethehaiga 120
#haiga #haiku

@completethehaiga.bsky.social ✨
lone frog serenading the stars night pond aria
October 21, 2025 at 1:17 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
#completethehaiga 119
#haiga #haiku

@completethehaiga.bsky.social ✨
a dream is a fish in the deep pond of your mind feed it well
October 20, 2025 at 11:16 AM
saintghost.bsky.social
enlightenment
on top of a mushroom
caterpillar

#haiku
#DailyHaikuPrompt

[page from the first edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (Macmillan, London, 1865), Lewis Carroll (1832-1898), John Tenniel (1820-1914), illustrator]
A book page showing chapter V of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The illustration by John Tenniel shows the caterpillar sitting on top of a mushroom smoking a hookah, while Alice is looking up to him. The text reads: “Advice From A Caterpillar The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: At last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth”
October 19, 2025 at 6:39 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
silver and gold
for the fairy queen’s wedding
mushroom rings

#haiku
#DailyHaikuPrompt

[ph.: pinterest]
A fairy ring comprised of white mushrooms in the green grass. Image found on Pinterest.
October 19, 2025 at 4:36 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
For #PoemsAbout #BreakTheMould ✨

for @thebrokenspine.co.uk
& @alanparrywriter.co.uk

A poem about a person who has always been a little different, difficult even, but is very very dear to me and will probably always remain so, even if things did not work out the way we wanted them to.
Light // Lemur He certainly broke the mould, the way he perched away from all of us; us seagulls and him the pelican on a cliff that only knows down, only knows how to feel in jaggedness and steep stone, resurrecting some storm or another, nourishing his fear with his own blood like a god-fearing child at Sunday school, discovering that yes, to go to heaven, honey, you must die. I offer him a cigarette, he declines; his sand-colored cap so low in his face as if shielding his eyes from a sky that has always been a little too bright for him. He hasn’t cut his hair in months and now it is shaggy like the fur of a homeless dog, matted with loneliness and collared to no one. His best trick has always been disappearing, it seems. In the mornings when I am still too drunk on the pills to be much of anything, I stumble my way next to him to where he huddles in the doorway like a heap of bones that the gravediggers forgot. I ask him how he feels and wordlessly, he retreats from me like a tide, inwards to where, I am guessing, there must be a maelstrom pulling the water, the threads of kelp and floods of fish and all words with them underground. I give him money to go to the zoo with me, to see the lemurs, with their tails striped black and white like swirls of Zebra laugh, ivory and licorice, monochrome candy canes, because I know that he likes those and has nowhere else to be. Between aviaries and cages, he suddenly gets excited about shooing owls and birds hidden behind foliage and bars, just like he is, too exotic for anyone of us to know his name or whereabouts or the voice in which he might still sing when no one is listening. In the evening he sits on the dilapidated sofa in the cold-floored foyer, drawing graffiti, while I have to fill out some test that they gave me, combing through the silt of myself for personality disorders; it’ll be the only test I will ever score in high. He asks me if he can paint on my hand with his Chinese ink pen and whil… too low and the highs too sick, drifting out of time and world and grasp like the blurred incense of fever. At night we slip off to the men’s bathroom like foxes or thieves to smoke in secret, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes ten people or more, and between talk of our least successful suicide attempts we extinguish the stubs on the window sill, leaving long streaks of spit and ash, like some crude sort of cave painting, we were here we were here we were here. Sometimes, there is an emergency in the hallway or a warden on the prowl and we are trapped in that bathroom suddenly scared of discovery like a giddy flock of little girls. 3am is either a congregation of ghosts or of psych ward patients exchanging memories like the rarest kind of black market cigarettes. We watch Silent Hill on his world-weary laptop in the dingy curtained stillness of his room and finally he unfurls a bit like something that is not quite sure if it should blossom or wilt. He was born prematurely, he says, and would not have survived without a C-section, but, looking back, he thinks the doctors should just have let him die, then and there, a peaceful little pile of nothing, way before he knew the gunpowder tang of violence, before he could fester into too much of everything, a constant war. But they took him out of his mother, unasking and unapologetic, and placed him under a battalion of red hot heating lamps like a frightened worm-starved chick or a calf too weak to grow on its own, catapulted him into a life he did not think he deserved and that he did not know how to love or to make sense of. Because of the constant crimson glare, his first word had been light, he tells me, and in that moment I know that my first word will forever be the way I stutter his name when he kisses me right on my dumbstruck mouth, as I fall silent, for the first time, as if life itself had struck a match in the dark. A photograph of the person this poem is about. He holds his hand in front of his face and the rest of his face that was still visible I have crossed out for privacy reasons. I asked him for permission to share this picture and he said sure, since you can’t see my face anyway. He doesn’t like pictures of himself existing on the internet, he’s very particular about that. The photo was taken on the grounds of the university hospital complex where we were both patients in the psychiatric clinic at the time & where we met for the first time.
October 17, 2025 at 4:51 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
For #PromptCombo #SimplePleasures ✨

for @dragonslayerma.bsky.social

Since I do not get to enjoy the simple pleasure of cuddling with our cat (he doesn’t like us THAT much), I at least sometimes have the pleasure of chatting with him about his day.
Eduard He slips in from the cold like a secret and coos for greeting like a happy mourning dove; the irony escapes me not, as he has accompanied many a bird on its last flight across. His feather-fluttered grin tells tall murder ballads of past pursuit. He is a hunter, shadow and priest, but a storyweaver, too. Sometimes he chuckle-chortles to himself, purrs and hiccups like a silver bell; which is probably the last thing that the field mouse hears, a funeral tolling of sorts. He would never curl up in my lap — oh, no! such degradation and utmost embarrassment, to be petted like a tiny peaceful black ball of twirled yarn and teeth. Rather, he sometimes slinks close to my legs, like a little autumn breeze wanting to play or to fight a storm and I am allowed to touch from a distance, non-threateningly, like one would approach a tiger, but only with my eyes. And yet all the pleasure his wild tales give me, the gossip of wood, field, and creek — and just like all the best fairy tales do, they shimmer with bloodshed and glee. A photo of Eduard sitting in the herb garden. He is a black cat and looking with one eye at the camera.
October 16, 2025 at 12:34 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
#sensewrds 117 [liminal, endearing, skies] ✨ #poetry
Vespers That moment when, in the failing afternoon light, you suddenly remember the language of dusk and then you speak it; speak all of its absences and shades of bruised and become a knowing like that tangled in the skeins of the geese that there must be a leaving to make possible a returning to.
October 15, 2025 at 5:41 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
#completethehaiga 118
#haiga #haiku

@completethehaiga.bsky.social ✨
a withered reed uncoils in the breeze north wind clarinet
October 14, 2025 at 4:05 PM
saintghost.bsky.social
the pheasants are draped
in chestnut, copper & gold
autumn foliage

#haiku
#DailyHaikuPrompt

#art @amberrylamb on Instagram
A watercolor drawing of a pheasant in various shades of brown and green. The pheasant wears a little hat with a feather in it and is surrounded by branches with berries on them. The drawing is placed on a brown surface surrounded by feathers, twigs, acorns, leaves, and the artist’s drawing utensils. Drawing by @amberrylamb on Instagram.
October 14, 2025 at 1:47 PM