A lone figure in the meadow stands, With shattered skies and trembling hands. The wind, a thief with reckless grace, Steals her umbrella without a trace.

The flowers bow, the grasses sway, As clouds devour the golden day. Her dress, a shadow in the light, Dances softly with the fading night.

What did she lose, this wandering soul? A dream, a love, a fractured whole? The feathers fall, the storm takes flight, Leaving silence in its might.

She stretches forth, her fingers bare, As if to catch the fleeting air. And though the tempest tore apart, It left her wild, unbroken heart.

In a forest where shadows consume the light,
She wanders, skin pale as frostbitten white,
Lips a scarlet slash, like roses in bloom,
Snow White, reborn from beauty’s tomb.

Her eyes, dark voids that swallow despair,
Lure the lost with a promise so fair,
But her smile, sharp as a thorn’s cruel bite,
Hides a hunger that festers in the night.

In twisted woods where secrets are spoken,
She sings to the damned, her lullaby broken,
Her voice, a melody of sorrow and grace,
Snow White, the queen of death’s cold embrace.