Palms red, blood splattered.
Tonight’s moon—above the path of snow,
where we walked, arms looped.
Joy—now graves called to,
dug by hands of death and loss.
Must beauty be painted in death?
I fear you’ll be next.
If morning willed so,
shall the sky reunite us two,
flying on wings white as snow.
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 8:17 AM UTC
Yesterday haunts
Suit after the night sky
Yet here we are standing before ourselves
Hands in red, lips smirking white
Awaiting morning, sunrise signaling birth
Tomorrow comes
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 8:13 AM UTC
Dear child,
Shall the sun rise a day,
When eyes water no more,
Or rivers of red shall you do.
If sun rises, choose to bloom the garden,
Roses, roses shall you grow
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 8:10 AM UTC