the rose was not. it was simply thrown away. it was a rose and a rose by any other name would be just a beautiful. but this, is just a memory. she didn’t
The trees were dying, the grass was browning. The fires burned through the dry forest, curling the vines. The trees bent and withered, the heat melting the very air.
The grass underneath her feet died, withered, wrinkling into brown strands as they had been green only seconds before. What had once been alive, now dead. It was her affect on everything. She was used to it now. What was there that she could do? Like everything around her, she would possibly die one day. Or was that why they withered? Was she sucking the life force from other beings?
The withered branch of the tree hit against the window pane. The scratching scared the small girl that was lying in her bed staring at the white of her ceiling. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to read that ghost story before bedtime.
It wasn’t like him to go outside on a rainy day. It wasn’t like him at all to grab the umbrella and take to the streets, even just for a walk to the store or a stroll through the park. It wasn’t like him at all to smile at the woman passing him on the sidewalk, or to blush when she smiled back. It wasn’t like him to get past the idea of opening the door. It wasn’t like him, and it wasn’t.
The seasons passed, the once lively tree that invigorated the small community had withered. The children no longer danced around the tree playing their daytime games. The men no longer gathered at nighttime drinking beer and singing the anthems they once used to sing. The loss of the great tree was like losing an elderly member of your family, it was the bond between everyone in our little town, it was our common ancestor. Now it was lost and only its memory remained.
I feel like I’m withering. Not the way you hear people talk about withering away or anything like that, it has nothing to do with my food or my eating habbits. I just constantly feel like I’m shrinking. And I don’t know what to do about that–it’s all withered now. Obvious comparisons aside, I have throughly ruined my garden.
The grass was withered.
Emily gazed out the window, surveying the damage.
Dead. All dead. The grass was dead.
Wasted summer work, Emily thinks blithely.
an old withered hand reached out to gently touch my cheek. it simply wanted to contact itself with a smooth piece of new flesh; this was a hand who wished not to harm, but instead to appreciated the new and the fresh. it was gentle, it was leathery, it made me wonder about the texture of it. i wondered not about myself, but instead about the hand. elderly, and full of experience, it was something only it–the hand which touched me–could explain to my soft new skin. thirsty and alone, the hand eventually retreated back to the body on which it was attached. i wondered how long the arm was to be able to touch me, get under my skin and into my brain like it did.
-He was withered down, limbs outstretched beyond the edges of the table and chair. The Seraphim had a gleam to it that I hadn’t recognized before. It seemed almost restless, it was centered with the moonlight that streamed through the upper window in the hall.-
The apple tree he’d grown to love was slowly rotting. It was late spring. He came there often just to think. But like his love for her, his thoughts about her and their future together was in a state of slow decay.
sere, dry, old
What I don’t want to be and what I fear as I age.
Lifeless and past use. Dry, brittle.
Gone.
Her face was withered like an old apple face doll.
some may say that elders look withered, wrinkled like apple dolls, but that is wrong, I think – they show the marks of a full life, of dreams fulfilled or unrealized, of the whole experience of life, of having survived the ups and downs of this crazy thing we call life.
The flower that had bloomed ever so magnificently now had withered, and I mourned. It was an astonishing beauty full of life and energy. Every day, it turned more and more dull until the soil stole everything but one petal. It was a dry, velvet and wrinkled petal; so fragile that even a tiny puff of air could crush it.
We was very upset when we discovered that the tree that we had planted about a year ago had withered and die. We were promised that it would survive the the unsought of the drought that visited our us that year, and we were looking forward to seeing our orange tree blossom.
Why is this word always associated with roses and lace in my mind? Two things that bring me joy. Delicate, feminine, they’re beautiful even when simple, and serve to adorn and improve other things. It’s a mind-jump, but I wonder if I fear not being feminine (enough) or delicate and eloquent, the soft-spoken and sweet ideal girl of churchy peers. Or do I fear a loss of my present beauty? So much of what I value about myself is found in my personality and character. I want to bloom eternally, always growing upwards, presenting nothing but sweetness and resilience. God forbid my greatest assets are found to be withered, and so young.
the flower withered yesterday and tomorrow and yesterday and tomorrow and yesterday and tomorrow and yesterday and today and yesterday and yesterday and last Tuesday when the wolves fell down the mountain on Friday afternoon when the flower withered and died yesterday and tomorrow and yesterday.
and there she lies on the floor, watching the blood seep through her fingers. the air crackles around her, dust flying up in the breeze, and she watches as bits and pieces of herself are thrown away. there she is, withered and torn, a broken shell of the past, and maybe too many questions and doubts.
She laid her withered hand on his, and looked away, waiting for the movement of his hand. It did not come, and she knew, as she glanced back at the bed, her eyes filling up with tears, that it never would again.
It felt like she was withering away from me, like a snake. As soon as I opened my mouth, her eyes turned dark and her skin was pale. I couldn’t think of anything else to do or say, and before I knew it she was gone. She withered away from me like ash in the wind, and I felt like I would never see her again.
Okay well, withered. I don’t really know exactly what this word means, really, but it seems like a word that someone were to say if they were winded. Like damn, that person as so withered, I mean like DAMN. I don’t even know what to say exactly, but omg my times up.
Withered was her soul,
Red, bloodshot, her eyes
That smile… it wasn’t real.
I could tell….
And the way she tugged at her long sleeves
Making certain that they didn’t slide up
She hid something….
flowers – a sign of death.. something coming to an end. As the winter came around, the trees and plants started to wither away.. until spring came around and new life was found all over again.
Her skin withered away as the days never changed but she always did. Always alright, never any better. Never any worse, how could I change the things that cannot be undone. Sweet dreams.
Among many things, her hands were withered, as was the small hydrangea plant in the backyard. She watched as her beloved shitzu Nony moseyed over, jerky with arthritis, and relieved herself all over the small purple bush.
She withered away from her solitude. She was alone. She was unhappy. She fell like the petals from a dying rose, plant, tree. She could not stand anymore. All of her energies were drained, withered, used up. Nothing could pick her up anymore.
withered…. hm tired and like gone… ive withered away and don’t know what else to say, hahahah that rhymed. interesting.. I don’t know. Its just like gone away and not there anymore…. its losing yourself and what not. I think… ive withered away to nothing left of me.
His hand, withered with age, gently placed the rose on her grave. He sat on the bench, a sad smile playing around on his face. “I miss you more than anyone can imagine,” he whispered softly.
why? why must everything wither? i know that nothing lasts forever. but there are just some things that i cannot let go of. don’t wither like everything else please. i need you.
the rose was not. it was simply thrown away. it was a rose and a rose by any other name would be just a beautiful. but this, is just a memory. she didn’t
The trees were dying, the grass was browning. The fires burned through the dry forest, curling the vines. The trees bent and withered, the heat melting the very air.
The grass underneath her feet died, withered, wrinkling into brown strands as they had been green only seconds before. What had once been alive, now dead. It was her affect on everything. She was used to it now. What was there that she could do? Like everything around her, she would possibly die one day. Or was that why they withered? Was she sucking the life force from other beings?
The withered branch of the tree hit against the window pane. The scratching scared the small girl that was lying in her bed staring at the white of her ceiling. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to read that ghost story before bedtime.
It wasn’t like him to go outside on a rainy day. It wasn’t like him at all to grab the umbrella and take to the streets, even just for a walk to the store or a stroll through the park. It wasn’t like him at all to smile at the woman passing him on the sidewalk, or to blush when she smiled back. It wasn’t like him to get past the idea of opening the door. It wasn’t like him, and it wasn’t.
The seasons passed, the once lively tree that invigorated the small community had withered. The children no longer danced around the tree playing their daytime games. The men no longer gathered at nighttime drinking beer and singing the anthems they once used to sing. The loss of the great tree was like losing an elderly member of your family, it was the bond between everyone in our little town, it was our common ancestor. Now it was lost and only its memory remained.
I feel like I’m withering. Not the way you hear people talk about withering away or anything like that, it has nothing to do with my food or my eating habbits. I just constantly feel like I’m shrinking. And I don’t know what to do about that–it’s all withered now. Obvious comparisons aside, I have throughly ruined my garden.
The grass was withered.
Emily gazed out the window, surveying the damage.
Dead. All dead. The grass was dead.
Wasted summer work, Emily thinks blithely.
an old withered hand reached out to gently touch my cheek. it simply wanted to contact itself with a smooth piece of new flesh; this was a hand who wished not to harm, but instead to appreciated the new and the fresh. it was gentle, it was leathery, it made me wonder about the texture of it. i wondered not about myself, but instead about the hand. elderly, and full of experience, it was something only it–the hand which touched me–could explain to my soft new skin. thirsty and alone, the hand eventually retreated back to the body on which it was attached. i wondered how long the arm was to be able to touch me, get under my skin and into my brain like it did.
-He was withered down, limbs outstretched beyond the edges of the table and chair. The Seraphim had a gleam to it that I hadn’t recognized before. It seemed almost restless, it was centered with the moonlight that streamed through the upper window in the hall.-
The apple tree he’d grown to love was slowly rotting. It was late spring. He came there often just to think. But like his love for her, his thoughts about her and their future together was in a state of slow decay.
‘Hang up or I’ll break your kneecaps and you’ll be sorry you ever called.’
‘Cleo, just listen. I need your help.’
‘My help? My wicked, withered help? What on earth do I know that you don’t, almighty king Fallow?’
‘Are you kidding? You know everything, much more than my little brain, I promise you. It’s all choked up around my neck ’cause my tie is too tight.’
‘Okay. What is it?’
sere, dry, old
What I don’t want to be and what I fear as I age.
Lifeless and past use. Dry, brittle.
Gone.
Her face was withered like an old apple face doll.
As the days passed with no rain, the poor pathic flower withered before me, returning the dusts from which it came.
some may say that elders look withered, wrinkled like apple dolls, but that is wrong, I think – they show the marks of a full life, of dreams fulfilled or unrealized, of the whole experience of life, of having survived the ups and downs of this crazy thing we call life.
My heart withered and worn …. Tattered and torn…waiting for the next makeover.
The flower that had bloomed ever so magnificently now had withered, and I mourned. It was an astonishing beauty full of life and energy. Every day, it turned more and more dull until the soil stole everything but one petal. It was a dry, velvet and wrinkled petal; so fragile that even a tiny puff of air could crush it.
We was very upset when we discovered that the tree that we had planted about a year ago had withered and die. We were promised that it would survive the the unsought of the drought that visited our us that year, and we were looking forward to seeing our orange tree blossom.
Why is this word always associated with roses and lace in my mind? Two things that bring me joy. Delicate, feminine, they’re beautiful even when simple, and serve to adorn and improve other things. It’s a mind-jump, but I wonder if I fear not being feminine (enough) or delicate and eloquent, the soft-spoken and sweet ideal girl of churchy peers. Or do I fear a loss of my present beauty? So much of what I value about myself is found in my personality and character. I want to bloom eternally, always growing upwards, presenting nothing but sweetness and resilience. God forbid my greatest assets are found to be withered, and so young.
Vast, barren land, surrounding,
nothing more than heat dazed bugs for miles.
it sits alone,
withering
The flowers withered with the coming of autumn. The days grew shorter and the nights colder. this is 2 hard
the flower withered yesterday and tomorrow and yesterday and tomorrow and yesterday and tomorrow and yesterday and today and yesterday and yesterday and last Tuesday when the wolves fell down the mountain on Friday afternoon when the flower withered and died yesterday and tomorrow and yesterday.
and there she lies on the floor, watching the blood seep through her fingers. the air crackles around her, dust flying up in the breeze, and she watches as bits and pieces of herself are thrown away. there she is, withered and torn, a broken shell of the past, and maybe too many questions and doubts.
She laid her withered hand on his, and looked away, waiting for the movement of his hand. It did not come, and she knew, as she glanced back at the bed, her eyes filling up with tears, that it never would again.
I dont know what is withered. I promise to write on the next word. sorry.
Waisey withred ka matlab kharab hou na hou na.
We spent our nights together, holding hands in the dark
Trying to fix our withered hearts with a single, forced spark.
It felt like she was withering away from me, like a snake. As soon as I opened my mouth, her eyes turned dark and her skin was pale. I couldn’t think of anything else to do or say, and before I knew it she was gone. She withered away from me like ash in the wind, and I felt like I would never see her again.
Okay well, withered. I don’t really know exactly what this word means, really, but it seems like a word that someone were to say if they were winded. Like damn, that person as so withered, I mean like DAMN. I don’t even know what to say exactly, but omg my times up.
The withered skyline was mesmerisingly sad to watch. We could not eat very much after that.
Withered was her soul,
Red, bloodshot, her eyes
That smile… it wasn’t real.
I could tell….
And the way she tugged at her long sleeves
Making certain that they didn’t slide up
She hid something….
my heart has withered into nothing more than memories of the person who lied all too well for the sake of comfort.
flowers – a sign of death.. something coming to an end. As the winter came around, the trees and plants started to wither away.. until spring came around and new life was found all over again.
As I threw the water bottle carelessly towards you, I also threw the weed killer. And just like us, the daffodils began to wither.
Her skin withered away as the days never changed but she always did. Always alright, never any better. Never any worse, how could I change the things that cannot be undone. Sweet dreams.
Among many things, her hands were withered, as was the small hydrangea plant in the backyard. She watched as her beloved shitzu Nony moseyed over, jerky with arthritis, and relieved herself all over the small purple bush.
the little flowered grew to be an old withered plant thst lived through many stages of live, it experienced and saw many things.
She withered away from her solitude. She was alone. She was unhappy. She fell like the petals from a dying rose, plant, tree. She could not stand anymore. All of her energies were drained, withered, used up. Nothing could pick her up anymore.
withered…. hm tired and like gone… ive withered away and don’t know what else to say, hahahah that rhymed. interesting.. I don’t know. Its just like gone away and not there anymore…. its losing yourself and what not. I think… ive withered away to nothing left of me.
His hand, withered with age, gently placed the rose on her grave. He sat on the bench, a sad smile playing around on his face. “I miss you more than anyone can imagine,” he whispered softly.
why? why must everything wither? i know that nothing lasts forever. but there are just some things that i cannot let go of. don’t wither like everything else please. i need you.