Fae Fatale 🌿

Australian, Bipolar, Bisexual, Autistic Energy. Poetry, Photos, Art and General Ramblings.

[faefatalesblog]

Get Ready With Me Matchkitsa Darkhorn from The House of Sand and Sin!

The Goblin Ball is an immersive fantasy theatre experience in Melbourne, Australia.

Tickets for The Goblin Ball 2026: The House of Sand and Sin on sale for June 27th and July 4th.

https://www.trybooking.com/events/landing/1458249

Once, The House of Sand, a family-owned club filled with music, light, and belonging. But tragedy struck. The family was eliminated, and in their absence, corruption seeped through the doors.

From the shadows stepped The Big Sin. Under his hand, the House transformed. What was once legacy became survival. The once sanctuary became a stage where every deal, every performance, every smile hides risk. The history of The House is written in blood and betrayal, but also in resilience. Every performer who remains carries the memory of what was lost, and the reality of what thrives now.

[faefatalesblog]

Fragments of Grace by Fae Fatale 🌿✨

Piecing together the quiet moments. Fragments of Grace, handcrafted and layered.

Trying to bottle that specific sunset glow. This piece is all about reflections, ripples, and reaching for the light.

[dominiqueramseyart]

Haven't You Heard? Im looking for you... 2021

[faefatalesblog]

From a wood of burning, twisted oak,

Where roots are embers and shadows cloak,

A light that is not quite of day,

Illuminates the grassy way.

It blooms with mushrooms, gold and bright,

Against the velvet, star-struck night,

And the ancient, scarlet trees,

Sing songs of fire to the breeze.

But here, within the deep-most core,

Where paths grow silent and no more,

A darker presence takes its place,

A hollow without form or face.

Save for two eyes, a golden gleam,

That hold you fast, a waking dream.

Unblinking, deep, they seem to say,

A thought you can't push quite away.

The void takes shape, a velvet limb,

The path ahead is dark and dim.

From nothingness, the shadow paws,

Break through the edges of the laws.

“Haven’t you heard?” a whisper low,

From ancient bark where legends grow.

“I’ve wandered far, but now, you see,

I'm finally here... and looking for thee.”

Is it a warm, protective hand,

Or a deeper truth you don't yet understand?

In this glowing, eerie, deep abode,

The eyes keep watch upon the road.

[monstersovka]

🌾✷

[faefatalesblog]

"Mercy" Artwork and Poem by Fae Fatale 🌿

Before the stone steeples pierced the mist, before the bells drowned out the song of the burn, she was the breath of the heather. Now, she is a prisoner of a "glory" she never asked for.

The rowan weeps where she once danced,

In groves where ancient shadows spun,

Before the iron cross advanced

To claim the moon and hide the sun.

They bound her limbs in heavy light,

With links of prayer and "holy" gold,

To starve the wildness of the night

And bring the spirit to the fold.

Each bead a shackle, cold and grim,

A silver weight of forced decree,

They chant their psalms and holy hymn

To drown the whispers of the lea.

They call it grace, this iron shroud,

A "mercy" wrought in leaden twine,

To keep her from the thundercloud

And break the ancient, mossy line.

But see her hand—a pale, thin ghost—

That trembles toward the darkening blue,

Beyond the reach of host and ghost,

To where the stars are bright and true.

Though iron bites and incense burns,

And scripture seals her earthen tomb,

The wild, unbaptized spirit yearns

To fly within the storm-wracked loom.

"You cannot chain the wind with iron, nor the heart of the forest with a prayer."

[faefatalesblog]

The naming of Cats is a ticklish thing,

But Tudding Mcrae is a name with a ring.

He cares not for logic, for mice, or for tea,

For the Sleepy Cat lives in a state of decree.

​Yet do not be fooled by the closed, heavy eye,

For suddenly—zip!—he is aiming for high!

A shadow, a specter, a blur on the shelf,

Committing such mischief he surprises himself.

​He hunts for the feather, he climbs for the peak,

With the heart of a lion and a hunter’s technique.

But when the chase ends and the shadows grow tall,

He finds that he isn’t so lonely at all.

​For the terror of toys and the climber of heights

Seeks only a lap for the coldest of nights.

A purr like a kettle, a soft, fuzzy plea—

The sweetest of cuddles is Tudding Mcrae.

[faefatalesblog]

[feefal]

Stitch yourself together with thread of gold

If you’re familiar with my work you might recognize this piece, since it’s the cover illustration for my art book✨

[faefatalesblog]

"Kintsugi of the Soul" by Fae Fatale 🌿

The needle is heavy, a silver-cold weight,

Against fingers that trembled for years.

But the fabric is mine, though the damage was great,

And the wash has been salty with tears.

I gathered the pieces from floors where they fell,

The silk and the cotton, torn thin—

The parts of the spirit that survived through that hell,

And the scraps of the child I had been.

The gold doesn't fix it to make it look "new,"

Or pretend that the blade never cut.

It honors the breaking that I wandered through,

While keeping the old exits shut.

Now I am patterned in bright, precious veins,

A map made of metal and bone.

Stronger for holding the weight of the chains,

And the brightest I’ve ever been known.

The seams are the best part, the light in the dark,

Where the gold and the heartbeat collide.

I am not just the wound; I am the spark,

With nothing left needing to hide.

I don’t reach for shadow or invisible lace

To hide where the jagged edges meet.

I won’t mask the history etched on my face,

Or the scars that make life feel complete.

Instead, I have chosen a shimmering line,

A filament spun out of fire.

A thread made of everything sturdy and fine,

Of survival and holy desire.

The first stitch is soft, for the quiet I lost.

The second is bold, for the truth.

The third is the ransom, paying the cost

For the theft of a luminous youth.

[20thcenturystarlet]

New York City ballet production of Midsummer Nights Dream

[sanctus-ingenium]

a dance to summon the sun

[faefatalesblog]

"A dance to summon the sun" by Fae Fatale 🌿

Beneath the dome of bruised and heavy gray,

Where shadows cling like silt to valley floors,

The hollowed bones of giants start to sway,

Unlocking light behind the eastern doors.

They gather on the ridge with feathered grace,

A thousand pinions etched in silver frost,

To lift the veil from morning’s hidden face

And find the fire the heavy night has lost.

The rhythm starts with beat of heavy wing,

A thrumming pulse that vibrates through the mud;

They do not speak, they do not dare to sing,

But move with lightning coursing through their blood.

The First Circle: A low and rhythmic sweep,

Brushing the mist into a swirling ghost.

The Second Rise: A climb both swift and steep,

To reach the height the stars abandoned most.

The Final Spin: A blur of gold and white,

Friction of air against the velvet quill,

Until a spark ignites the edge of night

And hangs a crown upon the highest hill.

The sky begins to bleed a copper hue,

As feathers catch the first, thin, amber thread;

The winged ones dip and dive amidst the blue,

To wake the heat that lay among the dead.

With one last cry, they fold their tired sails,

As golden warmth dissolves the winter’s breath;

The sun ascends, and as the shadow fails,

They sleep in light that conquered cold and death.

[thecollectibles]

Bougie Cat & Ghost by Lane Brown

[faefatalesblog]

"Ghostly Feline" by Fae Fatale 🌿

A flicker in the corner of the eye,

A pale smudge against the velvet night,

He drifts where silvered shadows lie,

A fragment of the moon, bleached bright.

He does not walk so much as flow,

A cloud of mist across the floor,

With footsteps soft as falling snow

Beside the heavy, oaken door.

The master starts and holds his breath,

To see a specter, thin and tall—

A silent messenger of death

Reflected on the parlor wall.

But then, a blink of copper fire,

Two amber lanterns spark and gleam,

Transcending every dark desire

And breaking through the waking dream.

No hollow soul or restless sprite,

Just velvet ears and needle claws;

A hunter cloaked in liquid white,

Who grooms his face with ghostly paws.

He leaps upon the dreamer’s chest,

A heavy weight of fur and bone,

To put the phantom fears to rest

And claim the house as his alone.

[guardianspirits13]

Happy Candle month to all who celebrate!

[guardianspirits13]

The Candle Girls are back with their new friend, Kwanzaa!

[guardianspirits13]

It's that time of year again!

A few new friends have joined the celebration this year- Yule, Diwali, and St Lucia's Day!

Happy Holidays to everyone who celebrates ❤️‍🔥

[cottageaesthetic]

[faefatalesblog]

The moon hangs low, a silver scythe,

Against the velvet, frozen height.

While carols drift through valley snow,

The ancient woods begin to glow.

Not with the glare of neon light,

But foxfire pale and starlight bright.

A circle drawn in salt and pine,

Where winter’s heart and spirit twine.

The holly king, in robes of red,

With crown of berries on his head,

Bows low to greet the rising sun—

The longest night is finally done.

In the cauldron, spice and wine,

Cinnamon and cedar-line.

A charm for peace, a knot for health,

The forest’s quiet, leafy wealth.

Forget the rush, the gilded store,

And hang the rowan by the door.

For Christmas is a witch’s spell:

To love the earth and wish it well.

With broom and bell and candle fire,

We lift the light a little higher.

The wheel has turned, the dark has passed;

The Yule-born light is home at last.

[faefatalesblog]

It's my 1 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

[faefatalesblog]

'Hestia, oh Goddess' by Fae Fatale 🌿

The first-born swallowed by the dark,

The last-born cast into the light,

She carries no spear, she leaves no mark

Of conquest or of vengeful might.

She is the pulse within the stone,

The goddess who renounced a throne.

When golden Apollo came to sue,

And Poseidon rose from the churning blue,

The halls of heaven began to shake

With the stormy vows the brothers make.

But Hestia laid a steady hand

Upon the King of the Sky’s command:

"By your own head, I swear to stay

As single as the break of day."

No wedding bed, no bitter strife—

She chose the fire, the spark of life.

In the garden’s shade, when the gods grew still,

And sleep descended on the holy hill,

A shadow crept—a lustful greed—

To claim the peace she did not lead.

But the donkey’s bray, a sudden cry,

Ripped the veil of the midnight sky;

She rose in strength, the intruder fled,

With the stars as witness overhead.

Twelve thrones stood high in a ring of gold,

But a new god rose, wild and bold.

As Dionysus brought the vine,

Hestia saw the stars align;

She stepped to the earth, to the ashes' floor,

To open wide the temple door.

"Take the seat," she whispered low,

"I am where the embers glow."

"She is the start of the feast and the end of the day,

The first of the wine and the last of the pray."

[faefatalesblog]

'Speaking of Lilith' by Fae Fatale 🌿

She glows in a way that is beautiful.

She shines in the colours of red sapphire or amber.

To watch her is to watch a small campfire smoke and then start to catch alight.

Piece by piece that small campfire grows and warms those near her. 

As more and more is added the stronger and more radiant she burns.

But alas, if she is not watched, if she becomes reckless and wild, she begins to scorch.

That campfire soon turns into a storm that cannot be put out easily.

You will watch it blaze, though terrifying it is damn enchanting. 

You will watch her, see her passion, feel somehow protected even as her world burns around her.

And when the fire is done, you will see her crumble. 

Like ash and soot she will fall. 

She will blame herself for all of it.

Disregarding that someone didn't attend the fire or that they lit in the first place.

She will mourn the losses and forget to look around.

She won't see the seeds growing, the seeds that couldn't grow without her. 

She burns in a light that is most beautiful.

[littlestpersimmon]

To Sleep

[faefatalesblog]

'The Great Sleepy Sheep' by Fae Fatale 🌿

When the moon hangs low like a silver hook,

And the day is closed like a finished book,

A traveler stirs in the fields on high,

A soft, white cloud with a watchful eye.

She is the Shepherd of the Deepest Night,

With wool as pale as the morning light.

She doesn't walk on the grass or dew,

But leaps across the velvet blue,

Trailing a tail of stardust thread,

To weave a blanket for every bed.

As she wanders over the sleepy town,

She shakes her fleece and the stars fall down.

She brings the scent of lavender sprigs,

And dreams of climbing the apple twigs.

With every hoof-beat, soft and slow,

The world begins to hush below.

She looks through windows, clear and bright,

To make sure everything is right:

Heavy quilts tucked chin-to-toe,

Warm milk with a honey glow,

Soft pajamas and fuzzy bears,

The fading sound of evening prayers.

She counts the sighs of the girls and boys,

The quieted hum of the forgotten toys.

She waits until the heavy eyes

Are closed beneath the midnight skies,

Then wraps them in a misty fold

To keep away the biting cold.

With one last leap o’er the highest hill,

The Great Sky Sheep stands very still.

The lights go out, the house is deep

In the velvet hush of a perfect sleep.

She’s crossed the sky, her work is done,

To wait in the stars for the morning sun.