Banished before thon barren plains, Where treacherous tears abstain Fare. Fair is the waste, The impurity of deep, decrepit weeds. And dage brings fruit then touched Only by their ravens of rot. May they paint thine tainted stave In golden garth and lull the lark; “Mine, Sweet babe, Robbed of cradle Readied for ritual. Mine, Sweet babe, Gore masked black Within the crimson bath.” Lacen their throats, the gullets that gloat! Lest langes of thorns, wrap the bairn sworn. Death breeds glore o’er luid nights Beldam rise belles in wicked repel. Round the funeral pyre.
There is something in the air no more ice nor vampire lairs The sun rules over night and brings forth all things bright And the flowers greet him with glee all shining and rising among the **** As the maiden smiles to her tummy her child smiles back in the shape of a bunny It's the breath of spring, balance and growth with it brings So let us blossom my dear make our intention and power clear
Merry Ostara to all who celebrate. To those who don't, I wish you to blossom this spring
it's raining again. It's been raining a lot lately. I rush outside with jars usually, tonight I sit under and I fill myself up. my hair clings to my neck my face my soul. I close my eyes, dipping myself in and out of the sky's tears in hopes that she'll never recognize the difference if I were to be extracting tears of my own. There will soon be no distinction between me and the wet. catching a breath, I peer up I blink so much I'm surprised I can find the clouds They shield Gaia from the cold I count the stars, though I mistake the majority of raindrops for the plasma. So I tilt down, face to Hell my hair curtains around me as if a cat had torn them into nothing but clumpy pieces of string, and recognize the puddle of a person, through blurry sockets, that I can no longer hide from.
I'm in a weird writing mood. I don't write many long things anymore, though, as we see
The weight of the guilt I have For the things I said about you before you died Sit on my chest Press me to death like a Salem witch. Every time I drink I indulge in my tears That I have no right to; All I cared about when you were alive was vengeance for the way You made me feel, When I should’ve thanked you for opening my eyes And I should’ve looked right through you With open eyes- And seen that you were dying inside. I wrote that you were dead to me, Not intending it quite literally Not wanting for awhile I manifested that for you- I await my witch trial.