She speaks the language of the crows, that woman. If you're near her while she sleeps, you'll hear whispers of that ancient avian tongue...
We are called to vision the new seeds to plant, seeds of thoughts in our psychic gardens, encouraged and supported by nature’s spring hymn.
I find that as I enter the hibernation period, I often stock up on words. Words that reflect the little light that is left as the twilight of the year arrives. Verses that remind me there is delight in dormancy and breadth in darkness.
The Death Priestesses are the chosen ones who swim in this chaotic soup of righteous rage and power-hunger willingly, who do not fear the breakdown, the loss, and the dark void of absolute nothingness as others do.
You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Put on the bone-and-antler crown I made for you, and I’ll grow my horns long to match yours.
When I was good, I was a sensitive and sweet-blooded Witch indeed. My ethics were impeccable, and my magick was so diamond white it could blind an angel.
What you need is to be admired. Acknowledged for your charm, wit, and elegance, in spite of what lurks underneath your royal garb.
She can accept the ugly shadows as parts of her but not this cosmic blessing kneeling before her. Still, she does as she is told, nourishing herself with the Shadow of Divinity; she tastes like sacred nectar and ceremonial chocolate. She tastes like holy water and the body of the Magdalene.