TattoosBeardNGuns

The wolf didn't know that the little girl in the red hood was making her way into the darkest part of the forest to see him, just as she didn't know he possessed enough strength to destroy her. Yet he let her come close, for there was something in her softness that made him wonder whether even a creature like him could be worthy of such tenderness.🩸🥀 📸 AMSBT15 ✨🌙

A walking contradiction between logic and feelings, between rebirth and birth, between night and day... forever caught somewhere in the making and unmaking of herself.🩸🥀

I find an immense amount of pleasure in gardens that have been left to themselves. Those where the ivy has grown presumptuous and wild, where the roses seem to have developed a sense of belonging around it, like one couldn't exist without the other, like neither knows where one ends and the other begins. Even the little inhabitants of the soil appear to have established a kingdom entirely independent of mankind. Sometimes, I find myself reminded of my own nature. The way my patterns of thought interact with the river of my emotions, creating a kind of synergy that I rarely know how to put into words. Maybe that's why I tend to hold my tongue and simply enjoy the experience, observing where it takes me and how much beauty I might discover in the gardens that live inside me. “A Little Wilderness of My Own”🩸🥀 📸 Pinterest ✨🌙

She has a November soul, a soul that exists only between realms, always on the threshold of life and death. She's the one who carries a darkness that has a mind of its own, a tenderness that doesn't make itself defenseless, and a wildness that doesn't ask to be forgiven. But you need to understand that she was never particularly interested in belonging to one side of anything; there's too much of the living in her death, and too much of the dead in her living. 🩸🥀 📸 Pinterest✨🌙

The dusk was on the mountain And the stars were dim and frail When the bats came flying, flying From the river and the vale To wheel against the twilight And sing their witchy tale. "We were kings of old!" they chanted, "Rulers of a world enchanted; "Every nation of creation "Owned our lordship over men. "Diadems of power crowned us, "Then rose Solomon to confound us, "In the form of beasts he bound us, "So our rule was broken then." Whirling, wheeling into westward, Fled they in their phantom flight; Was it but a wing-beat music Murmured through the star-gemmed night? Or the singing of a ghost clan Whispering of forgotten might? “The Song of the Bats” Robert E. Howard (1906-1936)🩸🥀 📸 Pinterest ✨ 🌙