my owl is wiser than me

i don't know if reality is an illusion but morality probably is

avolitorial:

we are the dreamers / we roll the dice so we’re alive

the white roses have all cindered, ash in
silver moonlight. in a city overgrown,

someone stands in the garden and touches
the dead flowers and thinks of you, wonders

what home you’ve found, and if you’ll stay
this time. this time, you’re fallen to gray

in a windless place, mouth smiling but no
happiness on your tongue. you look death

in the eye and do not blink. in a sky too far
to touch, the moon swells with light and

opens arms to welcome you home. there
will always be another story to tell, another

world to be won or saved or loved. above,
there’s a pale light, lunar and unwavering.

for the first, nameless time, you’re flying.

girls just wanna have knives

sleepyssocks:

black berry picking ☀︎
cr: @especialty ( insta: @ orphicfairy )

violentwavesofemotion:

“The pressed-flower gentleness of mystery, the longing that grows stronger and grows more.”

— Marya Zaturenska, from The Collected Poems; “The Haunted House,”

mylitstudies:

Today I visited my absolutely favorite place in this city.

voulair:

Irene for Perfect Velvet

honeygoblin:

Little is known about the origins of this practice, although there is some unfounded speculation that it is loosely derived from or perhaps inspired by ancient Aegean notions about bees’ ability to bridge the natural world with the afterlife.

lifeinpoetry:

We will always
be the dream you can’t not recall;

the memory that returns as a cold
sweat in the dark.

— Karese Burrows, from “History,” This Is How We Lost Each Other

avouer:

via weheartit

changan-moon:

Traditional Chinese hanfu “ from behind in silhouette “

avolitorial:

to the dark, silvered sky, to everything that is beyond capture