sisterwolf:

The Blood of a Pomegranate- Stephen Mackey

(via saga-city)

pixiedustparcels:

Demeter and her daughter, Persephone, the goddess of Spring. (1900)

lightispaintingshadows:

women in literature and folklore: persephone 

Tell me that you weren’t hungry that day.
Tell me that’s not what got you to stay.
Seven seeds don’t seem like quite enough
Reason to leave a mother’s deep love.

(via iamtheladyofshalott)

ketsudan:

ilvalentinos:

anonymous asked: persphone or lady of the lake?

ashlings:

I stumbled through his grey gardens, after,
Sore and smiling.
And the gardener said, “Little girl,
Little sunlit flower,
You belong in the world above.
Trust that they’ll come for you,
But while you wait
Don’t eat the food of the dead, for it will trap you here.”
And I said give me the fucking fruit.
[ x ]

(via dasperfume-deactivated20130202)

tobiasfunkes:

what to wear when…in a greenhouse. her skin is sweat-shiny and bare. the very air pulses, thick and sticky. she tucks a brightly-colored calla lily behind the soft shell of her ear. the humidity has curled her hair to naturalness. sunbeams gleam and the pond glitters in their light, its filter humming as it churns the current. lush greens drape over one another like lazy lovers. beads of moisture make their lurching journey down the steamy greenhouse windows. she catches them between her plump, begonia-pink lips when she presses a kissprint to the pane. she kisses sloppily, all impatience and need, but her raw fumbling is endearing. she has a fevered physicality long forgotten, a visceral instinct sanitized to extinction in the world beyond the kiss-smudged glass. she and the rare plants in this garden are the last of their kind: alone, alive, overheated.

post 266 of an infinity-part series

ilvalentinos:

ladies who should be playing mythical head bitches in charge | RACHEL HURD-WOOD as PERSEPHONE, the goddess of spring, the queen of the underworld.

Her mother weeps, every time she ascends from the bowels of the earth to return to the light. “Oh, my poor girl,” Demeter whispers. “My poor girl.” She does not tell her mother of the waters of Lethe, which glimmers for her alone in the dark. She does not tell her mother of the spirits of kings and princes, who join her at her high table. She does not tell her mother of the pomegranate seeds that burst on her tongue; the sweetness of the very fruit that had incarcerated her. She does not tell her mother of her husband’s lips against her skin. I am the queen of the undead, the words sit on her tongue but she bites down on it; bites it back. It is her secret and hers alone. I have tired of the light, and oh, mother, she thinks almost regretfully: you have never felt the shadows. She stands on her tiptoes, and kisses her mother on the cheek.

(via saferincages)

(via floralls)

(Source: noonesnemesis, via saga-city)