Woven together like a tapestry. Ever nation, every race, male and female, all kinds of people together make up this earth. The individual strings are everything. Without each of them and their differences, we wouldn’t have a one beautiful whole. This world really is a wonderful place. We have God to thank for that.
So many lives have woven into mine. The love of God has woven into my life by all the special people who have come and gone and remain in my life. My life is a series of woven events that lead me to where I am today. This is an amazing word.
She wore a woven dress with a woven basket on her head. She had a woven purse that she had made out of unicorn hair. Presenting herself as a woman with a woven personality, she walks into the room weaving her way through the crowd. Wove. N.
I jumped through the woven gold and hopped to the other side. With a feather in my cap. I stumbled and I fell. Until I came to a bridge where the trickling water wove through my blinding eyes.
The woven carpet crushed firmly under his feet. The place smelled of fabric, dried and raw. The girl he was with leaned into him. “That’s the one. He took it.
Now if only there wasn’t so much space between the lines, you’d see what’s been woven. On second thought, I guess it’s fitting enough. For me at least.
lies. thread. spinning a web of a mess that turns so thick one cannot get out or see where it began or where it might ever end. it gets thicker and thicker the pain and fear and lies and deceit and then you hold it to the light and you see some shine through there’s still a bit of truth, love and honesty in the mix. but the lies cover it up most of the time. and the weaver… the weaver is me, and you. it’s both of us together swimming side by side and i don’t know why we just can’t stop and look and slow down and rip the seams apart to see the light that once flowed upon us both. but for now we’re just weaving the thread, the lies, the pain, the distrust… we’re making it thicker and it’s getting darker.
intricate from close up but so simple from afar, the pattern seemed to blend into the background. i almost spilled my coffee because i wasn’t exactly sure what i was looking at. i missed my bus and didn’t care.
The fabric of the quilt had been woven by sixty of the old women in the village. It was very special. And Lucy had lost it. She was growing absent minded in her old age, but even she wasn’t that old yet. There were still five others older than her, and now she rebuked herself for her carelessness.
I have woven you unwittingly in the fabric of my breath. There is no way I can live and not feel you. You are the invisible thread that holds the electric power of life in me
We are interwoven like the fabrics of my mothers blanket.
Our lives twirl into each other,
and our fates tug and pull.
My heart is connected to yours,
as our fingers are interwoven together.
Thin, colorful rugs beneath my feet greet me when I wake up in the morning. Orange memories remind me of when you stepped there too. I wish you were here right now; woven into me.
A woven tile I see in my mind… I wonder now what I shall find. Behind the door that holds the key, that which melts shall bury me. I fear that time has passed me by… What shall I do but sit and fly?
the woven garment cascaded down the chair like a waterfall. It was a beauty that had never been held in the eyes of man before. To see it now, made men weep and women faint in awe. Perfection was woven, forever captured in a garment.
i woven this tree to ny arm it simbolises love and hate the colours you see are bright and dull on my arm they rest. take a look see were they have traveld in m mind they seem to a part of me cant remove. i am one with this woven tree. as human and nature we stand as one
The Indian woman squatted down at the roadside to sell her beautiful woven rugs. Sad that these wonderful crafts are deligated to the roadside. Yet, the brights reds and yellows add color to the dismal landscape.
The tapestry was woven with threads of love and hate, of joy and pain, of laughter and sorrow. The thread constantly dancing in and out of the multicolored life of the person it was weaving. Until, at last, when the Fate, not old and withered as her job might suggest, but graceful, beautiful, terrible in her power, came upon the needle and thread, and cut it without a second glance at the tragic mortality of it all.
single strands, standing alone are weak. insignifigant. isolated.
we have torn apart, but I still feel close to you.
Because together, together, binded together and tangled beyond recognition,
however painful, together we are strong.
like it or not.
The tales of time are woven into my spine. I arch in stress at times, and in ease I can stand tall. However these people decide to stake there way in my life I am not always a passive by stander to their influence. I have a mind and woven in that is my love, frustration, and desire to live.
A lo largo de nuestra vida tejemos pensamientos, recuerdos, algunos son lo suficientemente fuertes para permanecer en nuestra mente y aunque no lo parezca todos están conectados, incluso, con los de las demás personas.
The stitches were neatly woven into the worn quilt, passed down through the generations. The five year old girl watched her mother lightly touch the stitches, completely lost in her old memories.
Everything that we know is woven. Our lives are woven into many intricate parts that we as people only understand part of the meaning. Woven in intricate ways that we can hardly see the beauty of it.
the threads were, well, they were, crisscrossing new york the way things do when they a purpose, a project to complete. we, the people, weave, in an out. from an aerial point of view we look like a sweater. an astoria sweater.
Our lives were woven together by our love. Passion was woven between us and our hearts were woven together. I’m not sure what that’s like, to be so intertwined with someone their life becomes your own. One day I will be woven, totally, madly, passionately and lovingly intertwined. But, for know, I’m just loving being 15 and totally in love with the world. <3
It was a brilliant tapestry. Gold, silver, red, blue and just a hint of whimsy. The language it spoke was subtle. Every thread was woven with a sirens song. It was a prayer shawl. And it gave great comfort; to me and the child that was now in heaven.
In my life, I’ve woven many tales. Some are good, some are bad – all are fiction. In real life, I try to keep the distinction between tales I’ve woven and tales that are true, but it can be difficult sometimes. The fabric of my mind is warped and twisted, and it can be hard to tell the threads apart.
Woven together like a tapestry. Ever nation, every race, male and female, all kinds of people together make up this earth. The individual strings are everything. Without each of them and their differences, we wouldn’t have a one beautiful whole. This world really is a wonderful place. We have God to thank for that.
So many lives have woven into mine. The love of God has woven into my life by all the special people who have come and gone and remain in my life. My life is a series of woven events that lead me to where I am today. This is an amazing word.
She wore a woven dress with a woven basket on her head. She had a woven purse that she had made out of unicorn hair. Presenting herself as a woman with a woven personality, she walks into the room weaving her way through the crowd. Wove. N.
I jumped through the woven gold and hopped to the other side. With a feather in my cap. I stumbled and I fell. Until I came to a bridge where the trickling water wove through my blinding eyes.
The woven carpet crushed firmly under his feet. The place smelled of fabric, dried and raw. The girl he was with leaned into him. “That’s the one. He took it.
################################################################################################################################################.
Now if only there wasn’t so much space between the lines, you’d see what’s been woven. On second thought, I guess it’s fitting enough. For me at least.
lies. thread. spinning a web of a mess that turns so thick one cannot get out or see where it began or where it might ever end. it gets thicker and thicker the pain and fear and lies and deceit and then you hold it to the light and you see some shine through there’s still a bit of truth, love and honesty in the mix. but the lies cover it up most of the time. and the weaver… the weaver is me, and you. it’s both of us together swimming side by side and i don’t know why we just can’t stop and look and slow down and rip the seams apart to see the light that once flowed upon us both. but for now we’re just weaving the thread, the lies, the pain, the distrust… we’re making it thicker and it’s getting darker.
intricate from close up but so simple from afar, the pattern seemed to blend into the background. i almost spilled my coffee because i wasn’t exactly sure what i was looking at. i missed my bus and didn’t care.
The fabric of the quilt had been woven by sixty of the old women in the village. It was very special. And Lucy had lost it. She was growing absent minded in her old age, but even she wasn’t that old yet. There were still five others older than her, and now she rebuked herself for her carelessness.
Woven weaves from weathered leaves.
it was woven into the fabric of his soul.
I have woven you unwittingly in the fabric of my breath. There is no way I can live and not feel you. You are the invisible thread that holds the electric power of life in me
We are interwoven like the fabrics of my mothers blanket.
Our lives twirl into each other,
and our fates tug and pull.
My heart is connected to yours,
as our fingers are interwoven together.
the slippers were woven from silk. woven baskets. native americans. weaving. crossstitch. sewing.
Thin, colorful rugs beneath my feet greet me when I wake up in the morning. Orange memories remind me of when you stepped there too. I wish you were here right now; woven into me.
A woven tile I see in my mind… I wonder now what I shall find. Behind the door that holds the key, that which melts shall bury me. I fear that time has passed me by… What shall I do but sit and fly?
the woven garment cascaded down the chair like a waterfall. It was a beauty that had never been held in the eyes of man before. To see it now, made men weep and women faint in awe. Perfection was woven, forever captured in a garment.
were woven togrther, like a basket of wood. never seperating, just crossing, and remeating. never fully leaving. were always wo
i woven this tree to ny arm it simbolises love and hate the colours you see are bright and dull on my arm they rest. take a look see were they have traveld in m mind they seem to a part of me cant remove. i am one with this woven tree. as human and nature we stand as one
The Indian woman squatted down at the roadside to sell her beautiful woven rugs. Sad that these wonderful crafts are deligated to the roadside. Yet, the brights reds and yellows add color to the dismal landscape.
The tapestry was woven with threads of love and hate, of joy and pain, of laughter and sorrow. The thread constantly dancing in and out of the multicolored life of the person it was weaving. Until, at last, when the Fate, not old and withered as her job might suggest, but graceful, beautiful, terrible in her power, came upon the needle and thread, and cut it without a second glance at the tragic mortality of it all.
single strands, standing alone are weak. insignifigant. isolated.
we have torn apart, but I still feel close to you.
Because together, together, binded together and tangled beyond recognition,
however painful, together we are strong.
like it or not.
Basket made of woven material made by Native American Women waiting for their warriors to come home. Hand made full of love.
The cord that is used as a close-pull on my sleeping bag stuff sack makes me feel sad thinking about the past.
The tales of time are woven into my spine. I arch in stress at times, and in ease I can stand tall. However these people decide to stake there way in my life I am not always a passive by stander to their influence. I have a mind and woven in that is my love, frustration, and desire to live.
A lo largo de nuestra vida tejemos pensamientos, recuerdos, algunos son lo suficientemente fuertes para permanecer en nuestra mente y aunque no lo parezca todos están conectados, incluso, con los de las demás personas.
i don’t know the meaning of ‘woven’
Alone just string their closely knit bonds created a finely woven sweater.
The stitches were neatly woven into the worn quilt, passed down through the generations. The five year old girl watched her mother lightly touch the stitches, completely lost in her old memories.
it reminds me about the happy years of childhood. my grandma uses to make such beautiful things. and now it becomes really fashionable.
Everything that we know is woven. Our lives are woven into many intricate parts that we as people only understand part of the meaning. Woven in intricate ways that we can hardly see the beauty of it.
the threads were, well, they were, crisscrossing new york the way things do when they a purpose, a project to complete. we, the people, weave, in an out. from an aerial point of view we look like a sweater. an astoria sweater.
pink flowers woven
through garden’s white picket fence
fresh mown grass perfumes
Our lives were woven together by our love. Passion was woven between us and our hearts were woven together. I’m not sure what that’s like, to be so intertwined with someone their life becomes your own. One day I will be woven, totally, madly, passionately and lovingly intertwined. But, for know, I’m just loving being 15 and totally in love with the world. <3
It was a brilliant tapestry. Gold, silver, red, blue and just a hint of whimsy. The language it spoke was subtle. Every thread was woven with a sirens song. It was a prayer shawl. And it gave great comfort; to me and the child that was now in heaven.
Woven dream and memories intertwines with time.
The moment to reach for the stars.
Perfectly melded into one’s soul.
A deep connection to the sublime wonder of things.
In my life, I’ve woven many tales. Some are good, some are bad – all are fiction. In real life, I try to keep the distinction between tales I’ve woven and tales that are true, but it can be difficult sometimes. The fabric of my mind is warped and twisted, and it can be hard to tell the threads apart.
The hair, formerly woven tight to her head, now lay on the classroom floor like a murdered chinchilla.