mad palms 11.11.24

forced to fling my soul upon,

palms of growing gloom,

and wounds drove by my minds lethal dagger.

tender skin stabbed,

the wound it seemed both sore and sad,

to my own eye.

and while they swore my palms were mad,

they swore the heart would die,

left to bleed through moonlights harsh hold,

that breathing would tighten,

and divided morality would soon mold.

but soon a mystery came to light,

that showed my very own eyes had lied,

my soul recovered from the fight,

and the evil it was that soon died.