Voodoo Palms

Under the voodoo palms,

the air hums with secrets—

old magic curling like smoke

around the roots.

Every breeze is a whisper,

every shadow a warning,

every heartbeat a drum

calling something ancient

back to life.

Voodoo palms don’t just sway—

they watch.

They hold the heat,

the hush,

the half?truths you tried to bury.

Step beneath them

and the night leans in,

asking what you came to conjure

and what you’re ready to lose.