Moth ✨

Creative Pagan Wiccan and soon to be world explorer.


Poetic thoughts

By the fern brake, deep and shady, There I met an elfin lady. Dressed in cobweb silk and flowers, There she whiled away the hours, Waiting until dark. On the soft green moss beside her, Lay a baby wrapped in eider. Skin so fair and hair like midnight, The lady watched the coming twilight, Waiting till ’twas dark. Silently, I sat beside her, Hoping for some words to gather In my numb and startled mind. Said the lady, “You’re most kind to wait with me till dark.” “Are you lost?” I asked lady. “Is this your home, this fern brake shady? Will others come by star and Moon?” She only smiled, began to croon To the elfin child. The baby slept. The lady told me Deep magic of the Earth and Sea. Spells she whispered, strong and old. “Use them well,” she said. “Be bold When spelling in the night” “Can I work these?” The lady smiled, Gathered up her sleeping child. “Oh yes,” she answered,” Tis a boon For waiting with me till the Moon Slips up the sky.” Thinking deep, I sat beside her, Keeping watch. I heard the rider Corning through the fern brake shady. “Are you there, my lovely lady?” Called an elfin voice. An elfin lord, his clothes all viney, Armed with sword and dagger shiny, Rode his horse into the fern brake. Then my heart began to quake On seeing his dark eyes. Twilight gathered; birds were still. The Moon came up above the hill. Suddenly I felt alone. “Have no fear, for you have sown Good friendship.n The lady smiled and raised her hand. Upon her brow a shining band Glistened by the light of Moon. “Would you too give forth a boon?” She asked her lord. “For here is friend, a watcher bold.” “But they are enemies of old,” The elf lord answered. “No,” she said, “But guarded us in this fern bed.” He smiled. “So there are some who wish us well.” His voice was like a distant bell. A ring he took from off his hand. “This will tune you to the land and magic.” Its stone was pale, just like the Moon. The air was filled with eldritch tune, As they mounted, lord and lady, Rode off through the fern brake shady. I stood alone. People say elves are not there. But I have heard their voices fair, When I sit down in the brake. Magic spells I’ve learned to make All from the lady. Elf lord’s ring is on my hand To help with magic from the land. Sometimes I talk with lord and lady In the fern brake, deep and shady, Secretly. Is there magic? For me ’tis so. For when the sun is sinking low, I feel Earth’s power within my heart And know that I shall never part From the lord and lady. 

ELVES by D. J. Conway 


Scorching tongues of orange and blue lick at the dry bodies of the tall, spined trees.
The smell of singed fur and and the sound of hooves hitting dirt are barely audible through the crackling of burning forest.
Mewls of terror ring out through the forest as the wall of fire sweeps through the foliage.
Consuming the forest floor and skyward canopy, devouring all and leaving a steaming mess of charred forest graveyard behind it.
Roaring through the greenery the hooves are stilled by the flames. 
The blistering, searing wall engulfs the seemingly indestructible towers of trees.
Leaving nothing but burnt carcassas and scorched timber behind. 
When the final embers are extinguished by the morning dew, the only evidence of the fire that raged is the steaming bark and ashen air, burning the lungs of birds flying overhead.
The once magnificent, emphatic wall of holocaust that terrorized the woodlands overnight burnt out in mere seconds but the damage remaining would take decades to rebuild.


Malignant remains left to decompose in the molten sun.
A smell so putrid only the dispairing draw near,
dirty claws pick at rotting remains.
Thin, bony bodies bent in forms no beast should bend,
snapping and baring teeth as more disfigured approach.
Threatening to evade their repugnant bounty.
Rotten flesh falls from eroded, bloody teeth;
few will leave with hearts still beating.
Weak jaws break through skeletal remains,
ripping through the silence.
Disquet alarms alert ears and a
gruesome frenzy erupts almost instantaneously.
Aggressive, mirthless and sickening to watch.
Evident spines contort painfully and fragile starving bodies become murderous instruments.

Claws tear at thin, sun tattered skin.
Frail figures on the brink of death, rip life from the vulnurable cadaver of their opposers.
Faces contorted into nightmares,
thick scarlet ooze climbing from fresh wounds.
Mirroring the animals fed on.
Anguished, broken screeches go ignored;
remorse has no place here.
The primitive nature behind the false identity unmistakable,
humanity no longer dwells in what is now the fading shell of men.
There where thoughts once dwelled is black souled instinct.
There where subconscious once softened sit the broken, brittle remains of a ribcage;
holding cold, barely beating heart.
They are nothing but the eternally starving decay of the once living.
No life was lost here;
for life to be lost it had to be present.
Drained along with all humanity.

Into the night, the fatally injured but still breathing, retreat to lick their lingering open wounds.
The mangled corpses that remain grow cold.
Blood dries and flies nest in a form unrecognizable as a body.

Rosy cheeked, round and heavy of breath,
each movement a struggle.
Spying the mess in the morning sun.
The pigs mutter disgusted.
Filled to the brim with the pleasures they had gorged.
Tossing another carcass next to their previous.

Hope you guys like it, I wrote it in like 2 hours so it’s not the best but I hope you get the visual image …

In dim abysses pulse the shapes of night,Hungry and hideous, with strange miters crowned;Black pinions beating in fantastic flightFrom orb to orb through soulless voids profound.None dares to name the cosmos whence they course,Or guess the look on each amorphous face,Or speak the words that with resistless forceWould draw them from the halls of outer space.Yet here upon a page our frightened glanceFinds monstrous forms no human eye should see;Hints of those blasphemies whose countenanceSpreads death and madness through infinity.What limnner he who braves black gulfs aloneAnd lives to wake their alien horrors known?

– H.P. Lovecraft 

The Pagan Storm

A crack of the Goddess’ whip and the sky is covered in white veins, branching up like an old gnarled tree in the sky.

Ice pelts the soil and the rooftops of buildings like rocks flung by the Horned One and windows shudder as he lets out a mighty bellow.

The night erupts in the clapping of rain drops on the earths crust, small yet powerful enough to make branches crack and tumble to the ground.

The Lady’s breath makes the trees curl their toes deeper into the soil and their leaves dance on flimsy stems.

All of a sudden all is still but the dainty taps on hollow surfaces as the last of the sky’s tears make their way to the floor.


The ache of life clutches at my swollen belly, a heartbeat soon follows, a tiny figure nested on the floor of my womb.I can feel it’s emotion: safe, protected, warm, comfortable. What would have been its face is pressed against the soft pink lining of my deteriorating organ.

Third times the charm, I place the three oblong compressions under my tongue and they slowly begin to fall apart, overwhelming my mouth with a bitter taste and my body retaliates making my mouth water.

I lay down, placing a hand gently beneath my not yet breathing part of me. It’s fate makes my eyes water but I don’t falter or regret.

Bile rises in my throat, gracefully pouring from my lips as my body heaves and quakes, my hair and face damp and salty. 

My tiny being burns, she’s being torn apart within me, I’m ripping her limb from limb. She doesn’t understand, she screams; no those are my screams. I can’t stop the convulsions and the pain, white flashes beneath my eyelids as my insides char and shred themselves.

Minutes pass, minutes turn to hours, hours turn to blood; pouring, gushing, soaking my thighs and clothes.

I mourn for my loss, stroking the skin above where she once housed herself, I cry for her. I cry for her pain and I cry for mine.


Watching the moonrise through the twisted, crooked branches of the bare peach tree in the back yard through my bedroom window, I feel a tug at my soul; the open calls me.The bars on my window resemble the bars on a cage and behind my door is the three headed dog that’s holding me captive here.

I’m not meant for the cookie cutter life that is bred into to us by the government from a young age, my earth purpose calls me and beckons me to break free from my prison of concrete towers, battery powered souls and oil rivers. It whispers in my ear late at night, the formula to ease my wounded soul; smells of fresh grass, clean air, tall trees, the feel of bark beneath my hands and rain upon my face, the relief of having nowhere to go and nothing to do but live free.

I yearn for that antidote but will have to remain poisoned until my time for freedom comes. 

The Goddess knows what to do 🌻

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