𝕷𝖚𝖓𝖆𝕽𝖊𝖉𝕳𝖔𝖔𝖉

I am the wolf that hunts in the night. I am the village long forgotten. If you lose your way in the forest and you have a heart full of kindness, may you happen upon a cottage with a fire going and something warm to drink. If you come with ill intent and seek to harm those in the warm embrace, know that the wolf will tear you asunder and without remorse.

Honestly, YES 😅

Appreciate the rare gems that stay. ✨️

@MidnightAche99 poetry can come from many places ✨

I used to believe poetry came from sorrow. From heartbreak. From sleepless nights spent wandering through the ruins of old memories and unanswered questions. And perhaps some of it did. Pain has always been an eager teacher. But then you arrived, and I discovered that beauty can be just as inspiring as grief. That wonder can be just as powerful as loss. That sometimes a soul enters your life and awakens something that had been quietly sleeping within you all along. You brought out the poetry in me. Not because you asked for it. Not because you expected it. But because loving you made ordinary language feel inadequate. How was I supposed to look upon the light you carried and not reach for metaphor? How was I supposed to experience the tenderness of your presence and not search desperately for words capable of holding it? You became the question every poem was trying to answer. The reason my thoughts lingered longer on beauty. The reason I began noticing the moon again. The reason silence itself started to feel meaningful. Before you, I wrote because I had something to say. After you, I wrote because I felt something too profound to keep contained. And perhaps that is the secret no one tells us about love. The right person does not merely change your heart. They change your vision. The world remains the same, yet somehow everything appears illuminated. The smallest moments acquire significance. The simplest gestures become unforgettable. Even longing itself takes on a strange beauty because it belongs to someone worth longing for. You gave me that. You taught me that poetry is not found only in sorrow, but in devotion. In wonder. In the quiet miracle of finding another soul whose existence makes the world feel larger and more beautiful than it did before. And so every poem inevitably finds its way back to you. Not because you are the subject. Because you are the source. The hidden current beneath the words. The spark beneath the flame. The beautiful presence that reminded a weary heart how to marvel again. If there is poetry in me now, it is because loving you taught my soul to speak a language it had nearly forgotten. And ever since, every verse has carried the echo of your name.

Be authentic

That is kindness

Blessed Midsummer 🌿✨️

☮️💛 There will be days that test your patience , your strength, your heart 💛 Moments where you feel like you're holding your breath just to stay afloat 💛 In those moments pause ,take a deep breath 💛 Remember you are just not strong 💛 You are unbreakable 💛☮️

@AngelH52801 🙏🌿✨️

@_littlegroves Beautiful. I would love to wear something like this.

a black fascinator black veil for the witches who tends to the overgrown, forgotten greenhouse

How cats celebrate the summer solstice 🎨 Cécile Berrubé

The word ‘dryad’ is derived from the Greek word ‘drus’ meaning oak (origin of 'Druid'). Dryads were originally oak tree spirits, although over time they have come to represent all types of tree spirits and nymphs.   art: Dryad by Lorenzo Mastroianni

Yup

Incredible

@TaiguCafe The transitions are incredible. Nice work!

手描きでDMCアニメを作ってみた

So be kind to one another.. 🫵

@SubRosaMagick A lot of people mistake rage for anger, but anger is tainted by cause, rage is a pure, unadulterated, primal emotion that just... exists, and if used right, it can be fuel, rather than harm oneself with it... the beast knows.

@MidnightAche99 Very relatable 🖤✨️

There are certain loves that do not merely occupy the heart. They settle deeper than that. They find their way into the marrow of your being, into the hidden places where longing and devotion become indistinguishable from one another. They alter the rhythm of your thoughts, the shape of your dreams, and the way you move through the world long after the moment itself has passed. You became that kind of love for me. The kind that lingers. The kind that refuses to loosen its hold. The kind that transforms an ordinary life into something haunted by beauty. I have often wondered how deeply one soul can belong to another before the distinction between them begins to blur. How completely a person can inhabit your heart before their presence becomes as natural as your own heartbeat. Then I loved you. And suddenly the question no longer mattered. Because loving you never felt like something I did. It felt like something I became. A quiet devotion carried through every season. Through every joy and every sorrow. Through every distance and every silence. A flame that continued to burn, not because it was fed, but because it had become part of what I was. And if I am honest, I suspect it always will be. For when I imagine the end of all things, when the years have finally exhausted themselves and the long story of my life draws toward its final page, I do not imagine wealth or accomplishments. I do not imagine victories or regrets. I imagine the loves that shaped me. The souls that altered the course of my existence. The moments that taught my heart what it meant to truly belong. And among them, I find you. As constant as moonlight. As enduring as memory. As beautiful as the first moment I realized what you had become to me. Perhaps that is the truest measure of love. Not how fiercely it burns in its beginning, but how faithfully it remains. How it survives distance. How it survives time. How it continues to illuminate the darkness long after lesser flames have faded. And so, if fate were to grant me one final thought, one final memory to carry into the last breath, I suspect my heart would return to the place it has always returned. To you. To your warmth. To the beautiful and impossible miracle of having loved you at all. For some loves are merely chapters. Others become the story itself. And you, my love, have always felt like the story.