There wasn’t much else to be done then. She didn’t want a rollator. Not four wheels, she said. Her daughter nodded along. She didn’t want a walker then either. Not two wheels. She gawked at the transport chairs and even the light weight wheelchair. She used a wooden cane without grip which she clutched in her withered hand uneasy as her body shook in the pharmacy.
she has withered into a a raisin, a representation of herself, but smaller. her children do not visit anymore, the interns no longer stay to joke with her. if she did not have the weight of her bones, she’d have blown away by now.
Her hand, withered by time and hardships and whatever else she’d been through, grasped mine tightly. I looked down as the life in her eyes began to fade. “Don’t…let them…change you…” She whispered in a raspy voice. “Amelia…don’t…”
I didn’t have time to ask any questions about her quizzical words as she took her last breath.
a withered old hag ran down to the store, the store! WHAT STORE, that one. where. that one. you’re not even pointing. It’s rude to point, fuck off you grefty dagermouth… wat the fuck does that even mean.. no don’t drag me down into your pothole. A pothole used to be because people dug up bits of clay from old roads to literally make pots..thats what a pothole is mate.
Old and brown, shriveled and withered. The old willow tree stood short, a remnant of what once was. Days of old, days of nature, love and unity. The lake reflecting the abuse the tree had taken- smaller than ever and host to few creatures.
I don’t know when it became so hot that all there was around me was death. It was a summer day, sizzling with the offbeat hiss of cicadas. That, or a rattlesnake shake-shake-shaking away, but I was too young to think it could be that dangerous. I loved that sound. It snaked through that withered grass. It was brown and crumpled and the color of hay.
the girl was a flower
the petals bursting with color
until they broke
in pieces
when the world stomped
in her yard
the flower, like the girl
withered away
slowly
beautifully
completely
never again will
the petals shine
in the morning dew
shriveled dry up and thrown to the wind. Not only do I sometimes see it clearly in my head but I often times dream of it, too. It never ceases to amaze me at how things so dear can just slip right through your fingertips.
tattered,
underneath pounds
of pressure and memories
and those things
few people mention
between tight lips.
there,
crumpled
and bruised
and quivering in a corner.
That is where his withered
confidence lived.
Wilted, withered flower petals sulk over themselves in the shadows of the bookshelf. Dust hasn’t yet thickly collected, but a thin layer is visible. Take-out boxes are emptied on the floors. Beer bottles are bundled in the sink with dirty dishes. I haven’t seen her and she hasn’t returned my calls.
We’re running up and down the hills that used to be the dunes of a great desert. We’re barefoot don’t care about the end of our adventure which would be the end of the world. We feel the silk of green fresh meadows and don’t feel the need to ignore the withered flowers anymore.
The tree withered in the field. Its branches curled inward, apples falling from it and dropping on the ground with sickening, wet plops. The trunk shrank, and the bark cracked. It seemed as if the entire tree would disappear inside itself.
Withered were the dry branches, withered were the parched and cracked ground, withered was the shrivelled old lady who looked more like a crumpled brown paper bag lying on a wooden bench of the dead, lifeless park.
“Hello.” I say, staring up at your twisted trunk. Chunks of your overly large self are missing, possibly gnawed away by some sort of animal crawling around these woods. Your skin is sedimented with rough particles, a dead bug or two dangling off each protruding limb.
The photo was flattering, she thought. Then she noticed her hands … withered, veiny, spotted. They not only betrayed her age; they made her look even older than she actually was. “Oh, not to worry,” chirped the photographer, noticing the dismay on her client’s face. “We’ll just crop those poor old hands right out!”
Your hope was withering away, making way for the despair you knew would come.
It disgusted you. You disgusted yourself. The way you just let it happen was just deplorable.
The knowledge that this would happen, correction: was happening, only made it worse. Becoming aware of the process only sped it up.
It wasn’t like trash like you could do anything about it anyway. You were helpless. Everything you stood for was crumbling into dust, and what you hated most was already starting to invade your mind.
You, Nagito Komaeda, succumbing to despair. Imagine that.
She had withered like fruit left on the tree, fruit that had fallen into the grass and been forgotten, never found and held and enjoyed. She had, instead, lain forgotten, or worse than forgotten, never known in the first place, just lonely and isolated, unseen.
The Queen walked through the garden and noticed that the flowers had all withered away. It was as if all the beauty in the world had died along with her son. Nothing would ever be the same again and to make matters worse, she mourned her child alone. Not even the boy’s own father cared for him.
withered, like the rose on the window seal. Withered like the flowers, neglected in the corner of the balcony stacked with dusty boxes. Withered like my thoughts right now. Withered.
There wasn’t much else to be done then. She didn’t want a rollator. Not four wheels, she said. Her daughter nodded along. She didn’t want a walker then either. Not two wheels. She gawked at the transport chairs and even the light weight wheelchair. She used a wooden cane without grip which she clutched in her withered hand uneasy as her body shook in the pharmacy.
she has withered into a a raisin, a representation of herself, but smaller. her children do not visit anymore, the interns no longer stay to joke with her. if she did not have the weight of her bones, she’d have blown away by now.
Her hand, withered by time and hardships and whatever else she’d been through, grasped mine tightly. I looked down as the life in her eyes began to fade. “Don’t…let them…change you…” She whispered in a raspy voice. “Amelia…don’t…”
I didn’t have time to ask any questions about her quizzical words as she took her last breath.
You withered away my heart and soul. I withered away your reputation.
a withered old hag ran down to the store, the store! WHAT STORE, that one. where. that one. you’re not even pointing. It’s rude to point, fuck off you grefty dagermouth… wat the fuck does that even mean.. no don’t drag me down into your pothole. A pothole used to be because people dug up bits of clay from old roads to literally make pots..thats what a pothole is mate.
You withered away my heart. I withered away your reputation.
Old and brown, shriveled and withered. The old willow tree stood short, a remnant of what once was. Days of old, days of nature, love and unity. The lake reflecting the abuse the tree had taken- smaller than ever and host to few creatures.
I don’t know when it became so hot that all there was around me was death. It was a summer day, sizzling with the offbeat hiss of cicadas. That, or a rattlesnake shake-shake-shaking away, but I was too young to think it could be that dangerous. I loved that sound. It snaked through that withered grass. It was brown and crumpled and the color of hay.
the girl was a flower
the petals bursting with color
until they broke
in pieces
when the world stomped
in her yard
the flower, like the girl
withered away
slowly
beautifully
completely
never again will
the petals shine
in the morning dew
The withered old man sat there remebering of his past conquests. How he reveled in them.
the flowers withered, as the dementors passed by. the yellows, reds and oranges crumple and become brown and dead
Thanks
shriveled dry up and thrown to the wind. Not only do I sometimes see it clearly in my head but I often times dream of it, too. It never ceases to amaze me at how things so dear can just slip right through your fingertips.
tattered,
underneath pounds
of pressure and memories
and those things
few people mention
between tight lips.
there,
crumpled
and bruised
and quivering in a corner.
That is where his withered
confidence lived.
Wilted, withered flower petals sulk over themselves in the shadows of the bookshelf. Dust hasn’t yet thickly collected, but a thin layer is visible. Take-out boxes are emptied on the floors. Beer bottles are bundled in the sink with dirty dishes. I haven’t seen her and she hasn’t returned my calls.
The flowers were looking so lovely until the first frost of the year came. So sad to see them withered and dying now.
We’re running up and down the hills that used to be the dunes of a great desert. We’re barefoot don’t care about the end of our adventure which would be the end of the world. We feel the silk of green fresh meadows and don’t feel the need to ignore the withered flowers anymore.
withered and appaled i stand here, to look and to write, one word which makes me think of heights and depths and spirals. What more ? What less ?
The tree withered in the field. Its branches curled inward, apples falling from it and dropping on the ground with sickening, wet plops. The trunk shrank, and the bark cracked. It seemed as if the entire tree would disappear inside itself.
gone in a matter of secind but stood before completely fadding off cause you know how kids are forced against their natural will to go out and sac
Withered were the dry branches, withered were the parched and cracked ground, withered was the shrivelled old lady who looked more like a crumpled brown paper bag lying on a wooden bench of the dead, lifeless park.
withered woman. she walked out the shop with a bottle of vodka in her hands.
“Hello.” I say, staring up at your twisted trunk. Chunks of your overly large self are missing, possibly gnawed away by some sort of animal crawling around these woods. Your skin is sedimented with rough particles, a dead bug or two dangling off each protruding limb.
You disgust me. I disgust you. I disgust me.
“Can you grant me a wish?”
The photo was flattering, she thought. Then she noticed her hands … withered, veiny, spotted. They not only betrayed her age; they made her look even older than she actually was. “Oh, not to worry,” chirped the photographer, noticing the dismay on her client’s face. “We’ll just crop those poor old hands right out!”
Her withered skin shaped itself into a frown. “Are you quite sure you’re ready yet, dear?”
Your hope was withering away, making way for the despair you knew would come.
It disgusted you. You disgusted yourself. The way you just let it happen was just deplorable.
The knowledge that this would happen, correction: was happening, only made it worse. Becoming aware of the process only sped it up.
It wasn’t like trash like you could do anything about it anyway. You were helpless. Everything you stood for was crumbling into dust, and what you hated most was already starting to invade your mind.
You, Nagito Komaeda, succumbing to despair. Imagine that.
She had withered like fruit left on the tree, fruit that had fallen into the grass and been forgotten, never found and held and enjoyed. She had, instead, lain forgotten, or worse than forgotten, never known in the first place, just lonely and isolated, unseen.
The Queen walked through the garden and noticed that the flowers had all withered away. It was as if all the beauty in the world had died along with her son. Nothing would ever be the same again and to make matters worse, she mourned her child alone. Not even the boy’s own father cared for him.
withered, like the rose on the window seal. Withered like the flowers, neglected in the corner of the balcony stacked with dusty boxes. Withered like my thoughts right now. Withered.