dead petals

anonymous asked:

Alright, about the creativity ring spell. What I did was wrote a message on a piece of paper pretty much saying the ring will help me be creative when I wear it and it will help enhance my artistic skills easily and quickly and I drew a sigil I found that was about creativity and I burnt the paper, and once it was mostly ash (I left a few bits that weren't completely burnt) I crumpled up a dead rose petal and mixed it together and then put the ring and a small quartz piece in a glass jar.

Thats so cool! Can you off anon message me so I can PM you (I have them turned off right now) and talk about potentially making it into a full post for you (with credit to you)? (or if you posted it somewhere, I can reblog it for you!)

Earth Mama’s Delightful Bedtime Soak

This soak not only helps you calm down and drift to sleep, but exfoliates and softens your skin, and increases psychic ability for dream magic.


  • 2 cups of epsom salts
  • 2 cups of fine sea salt
  • 1 tablespoon of lavender oil(or 3tblsp lavender buds)
  • 1 tablespoon of chamomile oil(or 3tblsp of chamomile flowers)
  • 2 cups of coarse dead sea salt
  • Rose petals (optional)

Pour everything but roses into a container
stir 3 times clockwise
seal and shake, filling it with your intent
let it rest in moonlight for 36-48 hours

Use 1 - 2 cups before bed, sprinkle rose petals if desired, and soak for at least 20 minutes

yields 6 cups
shelf-life of 1 year
(( this is a soak I found in Sticks, Stones, Roots and Bones, by Stephanie Bird and reworked a little bit))

happy (belated) birthday to our beloved sunshine ♡

It’s the fragrance of last year’s apples and the smell of the insides of very old books with a base note of dead, wet rose-petals. It’s the distillation of loneliness, an incredibly sad smell - the essence of sorrowfulness and stoppered-up sighs.
—  Human Croquet

I’m so confused how people are upset about coco,
Like,its an animated movie about the day of the dead,
saying its a rip off of The Book of Life is like saying The Nightmare Before Christmas ripped off Rudolph the Red Nosed raindeer for being a stop motion Christmas movie

Myrtles (a poem)


I’m not obligated to know
anything about nature but
with the crepe myrtles
blooming up and down
our street I fill with questions

why such a shocking
shade of pink and why
bloom from the top first
then on down as if
each tree were slipping
off a dress of dull green
and brown to let its
day-glow nakedness
stand revealed.

These are my first crepe myrtles
and I stand outside in the
105-degree afternoon and wonder
when the blossoms will begin
to fade and fall decorating
the dry grass with dead
petals the size of

when will they fall
they simply have to since
nothing can stay that beautiful
all summer long

or else by next weekend
the streets and lawns will be
filled with people standing just
as I am transfixed by the way
nature takes something so simple
as a tree

and then shows us
its soul.

needy-plushie  asked:

“That was foolish.”

It’s certainly an arresting image.

Astor kneels by the massive bath, studying the water scattered with dead and dying petals of carnations. They come to rest now and then against the vast amount of black cloth which nearly outnumbers the volume of the tub. He had never known silk could get so swollen with water. Candles ring the tub, also black and flickering wildly with the swirling spirits, a few eagerly dipping into his hair to express their bizarre fondness. Wax melts down the edges, threatening the water. The amount of jewelry strung along her form and immense dress would stock any fine shop to full.

Hawu rests upon her back among all of this, staring up at the ceiling with an expression of serene yet gentle melancholy, the very image of a plaster saint enduring martyrdom with holy tranquility. She can’t lift her head for the weight of her soaked curls.

As she speaks, Astor muffles a laugh and apologizes for it with a kiss, careful not to dip her head below the surface with the motion. “Mayhap, but, my dear,” and he takes her hand to press another kiss on her knuckles, her arm threatening to sink out of his grasp thanks to the pull of the billowing, waterlogged sleeves. He doesn’t speak on the clogged drain, filled with silk.

“At least you did it for a magnificent aesthetic.”