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
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.
