She walks where shadows kiss the dew,

In silken steps no mortal knew,

Her fingers cold, her breath a sigh—

A whisper drawn from midnight’s sky.

She reads the scroll by candle’s gleam,

Its ink alive, a shifting dream,

Each name aglow in moonlight pale—

A quiet end, a closing tale.

The moonlight names, she bears with grace,

A wrinkled brow, a softened face.

Their time was set, the stars had sung,

Their final verse already spun.

But oh—

the moonshine names… they burn her soul,

Like shattered glass in a silver bowl.

A mother lost in tire-screech screams,

A boy who sank beneath his dreams.

A twist of fate, a gun, a blade,

A laugh that died where it was made.

These names appear in glowing gold,

A warmth that shouldn’t yet be cold.

She hates the way they flicker in,

As if the scroll commits a sin.

The ink rewrites what stars had penned—

It bends the thread that shouldn’t end.

Moonshine, not moonlight, marks her dread,

They cry the loudest of the dead.

And when she reaches for their hands,

Their eyes still search for promised lands.

She tries to stall, she tries to plead,

But time is deaf to mercy’s need.

The scroll insists, the clock complies,

And still she hates their shortened skies.

At night, she leaves her robe and scythe

To wander through the meadow’s life.

She hums the names she couldn’t save—

Their echoes carved on stars and grave.

She’s not a monster, not divine—

Just bound to fate, and cursed by time.

And when the moon is full and high,

She weeps beneath the changeless sky.

For moonlight, she can bear with grace.

But moonshine names?

She can’t replace.