oh that i was wrought from the hands of a kitten who just came through the tiniest door in the middle land carpeted just cleaned by a might sucking wand this creature she chomps and chews to great delight not wrought from evil but easy nimble little stardust wants
she was wrought with emotion, you know. it was like seeing a clear night sky full of stars for the first time but better, tasting fruit for the first time bursting on her tongue but better, hearing the sweet thrum of a cello’s laugh for the first time but better, touching satin for the first time but better, smelling roses for the first time–but better. feeling emotion for the first time was the best of all.
This victory before us hath been wrought from the darkest moment, where all did seem lost. For, it was not until we had seen the very worst that we could aspire to become the very best. Our successes we owe to this darkness.
Sweat poured over his brow. He had been working all day in the forge. Boom, boom, boom. His hammer hit the steaming metal. His job was so horrible, but he could still make the best things. Elaborate decorations and simple hooks. All these things he makes with wrought iron.
A beautiful wrought iron gate lined the exterior of Banshee Bertha’s garden. Violet vines entangled its floral pattern, enhancing its elegance. However, the creature behind the gate was hardly so remarkable. Of course, she wouldn’t be called “banshee” for nothing, now would she? Townsfolk dreaded having to walk past her austere location, for they feared her wonky spells and enchantments would transform them into something not-so-magically-delightful.
A sinking ship, under my feet. I guess we are missing the upkeep. Rot has taken its toll while we were too focused on the tolls. But I am not wrought with worry. It was beauty while it lasted.
In our apartment, we had a wrought iron railing in the living room.
I used to create plays there and radio broadcasts. it was a dramatic flourish
In a city life.
The blacksmith was hard at work. He was an expert, a master. He could create anything he wanted to using wrought iron. The blacksmith produced useful tools and many other things.
The crops all sat and baked in the sun, dried out and unsanitary even to the moles underneath the Earth. They were shrivelled and dislocated near the stems. They bent at a 45 angle and were grey and splotchy.
The tools all rusted over with a copper tint. They sat in a lonely tool shed, a patch of sunshine hollowing out the tools and making them seem dull.
The scroll said that the living hath wrought the chaos, and the dead only serve to bring calm. Indeed, only when one spirit drifted from a flesh vessel’s lungs that one family ceased to quarrel. Two more, and two families were joined together without further bloodshed. People were beginning to realize that, without death, nothing bore a consequence anymore. And everyone turned to chaos. So the scroll was true.
The blacksmith was not busy with horseshoes, so in his quiet times he made the most fabulous sculptures out of wrought iron. The artisan became artist.
The large iron gate was wrought with spikes and wires running through it. I held my breath, my heart beating a thousand miles out of my tiny chest. I knew it was the right time to escape. Yet something held me back. I looked across the dead barren field, and saw the barely livable shack that I at one time called home.
The famine had wrought starvation on the land. Everyone thought the sorcerers or the gods had caused it. No one knew the actual truth. If they had, they would have known they had more to worry about than their empty stomachs.
I am wrought with fear. This moment feels familiar. I think I might have been here before. I was hurt. I was lost. I was left all alone. Fear feels like hands wrapped around my throat. I have to fight for every breath. Whos fingers are they anyway?
With furious anger I disconnect from your soul, vibrating, wrought with disapproval I snare at your shadow of hate and delusional cockeyed views. I release you.
I thought of you the
the other night.
your image wrought in my mind
embedded in my soul
i fight the illusion
that you are still around
and i can trace my fingers
along your laugh lines on your face
from the times we shared together
and as the minds drifts with time
so does your memory
“The blade had been wrought in the fires of Na’thuth. Its metal is the finest in all the land. The hilt is made of gold and has been adorned with countless precious jewels. It is a sword truly worthy of a knight such as yourself.”
I wrung my hands and wiped my brow. What time did he say he would be home? I paced across the floor and glanced out of the window. Where was he? I couldn’t believe that I allowed him out of my sight even for a minute.
Now that I can’t stand upright any more, I’m wrought with the realization that I may have to spend the rest of my life like this, always looking up at people.
The chains you’ve wrought
are wound around my wrists.
I can’t run away from you
and you drag me
down
down
down
until there’s nothing but you, me and the darkness.
I don’t know whether I want to run away,
or whether I just enjoy the chase, and pull, and haul.
You’re just taking me down
into loving you.
Once upon a time there is a worm named wrought who loves to go on adventures.
One day he came upon a sparkling gem. He thought it might be magical.
So he tried to rub and see what happens but nothing changed. He thought it is not magical after all but anyway he wants to keep it.
It wrought destruction. Everywhere it turned, everywhere it sought out life, it left destruction in its wake. It was desperate and violent. It had no thought or cares for the needy. It thought only of itself. Only of survival.
Look at what you’ve done. He runs his hand through his hair, and he cannot believe you. You don’t believe you. You are a wreck, the debris too close to the event and no one wants to see you. You are painful. You hurt. You hurt him so much. This. This is what you’ve wrought.
“Do you have any idea what evil you have wrought, child?”
I sneered, my fingers wrapped tight around the bars of my cell. “What makes you think I care?”
One of the men stepped forward, slipping his hands between the bars to grasp at my shirt and tug me closer. “Watch your tongue, witch.”
I laughed.
And her strong will was wrought into a twisted shape. They kept hitting with that steel hammer until she finally crumpled, leaving a scarred version of her once beautiful self as their suvenire.
The storm wrought havoc on the small village. The day after the little settlement was barely recognizable. The thatched roofs were blown off the huts, utensils and other items of daily use littered the dirt roads, and the palm trees lay dead and helpless.
He wrought down the only words he could think about.
The only ones that mattered.
On the piece of paper that was covered with tears.
Everything was broken and shattered.
the gates had been wrought out of gold and silver. Silver bears paraded across the top as symbols of the royalty that lived in the house beyond. The gold glittered in the morning sun as the gates swung open to admit the carriage onto the grounds.
It wasn’t my pain to feel but the cloud she brought with her soaked my apartment. It had been years since sorrow poured so heavily in my bubble. I did the prudent thing, I welcomed it.
Without myself i tryed to be, the only thing that kept me with my feet on earth was that since i saw you i’d wrought you a thousand letters, lucky me i had no adress to send them to, lucky love we didn’t ever met.
Wrought with pain? Filled with it? Everything I’ve ever heard go hand-in-hand with the word “wrought” has been negative. Hearing it makes me dread the news of what’s to come.
I don’t even know what this means exactly. Uh… is it like when you strain the water out of something but in the past tense? I don’t know. Crappy first word.
The situation was wrought with danger. There were dragons flying overhead, raining fire down upon them. There were ogres in front of them with tree trunks in hand, bludgeoning all who came in their path. The air was filled with the smell of burned and rotting flesh.
oh that i was wrought from the hands of a kitten who just came through the tiniest door in the middle land carpeted just cleaned by a might sucking wand this creature she chomps and chews to great delight not wrought from evil but easy nimble little stardust wants
she was wrought with emotion, you know. it was like seeing a clear night sky full of stars for the first time but better, tasting fruit for the first time bursting on her tongue but better, hearing the sweet thrum of a cello’s laugh for the first time but better, touching satin for the first time but better, smelling roses for the first time–but better. feeling emotion for the first time was the best of all.
The wrought iron gate opened as she walked forward. She was the Queen of Death.
This victory before us hath been wrought from the darkest moment, where all did seem lost. For, it was not until we had seen the very worst that we could aspire to become the very best. Our successes we owe to this darkness.
My eyes were wrought with pain.
Sweat poured over his brow. He had been working all day in the forge. Boom, boom, boom. His hammer hit the steaming metal. His job was so horrible, but he could still make the best things. Elaborate decorations and simple hooks. All these things he makes with wrought iron.
A beautiful wrought iron gate lined the exterior of Banshee Bertha’s garden. Violet vines entangled its floral pattern, enhancing its elegance. However, the creature behind the gate was hardly so remarkable. Of course, she wouldn’t be called “banshee” for nothing, now would she? Townsfolk dreaded having to walk past her austere location, for they feared her wonky spells and enchantments would transform them into something not-so-magically-delightful.
he wrought it upon himself, none of it was my fault, please, just let me go…..
The heat pressed on. I felt so much pain and yet so much fulfillment. Wrought up by flames and calloused hands, I became a piece of art.
A sinking ship, under my feet. I guess we are missing the upkeep. Rot has taken its toll while we were too focused on the tolls. But I am not wrought with worry. It was beauty while it lasted.
In our apartment, we had a wrought iron railing in the living room.
I used to create plays there and radio broadcasts. it was a dramatic flourish
In a city life.
The blacksmith was hard at work. He was an expert, a master. He could create anything he wanted to using wrought iron. The blacksmith produced useful tools and many other things.
The crops all sat and baked in the sun, dried out and unsanitary even to the moles underneath the Earth. They were shrivelled and dislocated near the stems. They bent at a 45 angle and were grey and splotchy.
The tools all rusted over with a copper tint. They sat in a lonely tool shed, a patch of sunshine hollowing out the tools and making them seem dull.
The scroll said that the living hath wrought the chaos, and the dead only serve to bring calm. Indeed, only when one spirit drifted from a flesh vessel’s lungs that one family ceased to quarrel. Two more, and two families were joined together without further bloodshed. People were beginning to realize that, without death, nothing bore a consequence anymore. And everyone turned to chaos. So the scroll was true.
The blacksmith was not busy with horseshoes, so in his quiet times he made the most fabulous sculptures out of wrought iron. The artisan became artist.
The large iron gate was wrought with spikes and wires running through it. I held my breath, my heart beating a thousand miles out of my tiny chest. I knew it was the right time to escape. Yet something held me back. I looked across the dead barren field, and saw the barely livable shack that I at one time called home.
The famine had wrought starvation on the land. Everyone thought the sorcerers or the gods had caused it. No one knew the actual truth. If they had, they would have known they had more to worry about than their empty stomachs.
I am wrought with fear. This moment feels familiar. I think I might have been here before. I was hurt. I was lost. I was left all alone. Fear feels like hands wrapped around my throat. I have to fight for every breath. Whos fingers are they anyway?
With furious anger I disconnect from your soul, vibrating, wrought with disapproval I snare at your shadow of hate and delusional cockeyed views. I release you.
I thought of you the
the other night.
your image wrought in my mind
embedded in my soul
i fight the illusion
that you are still around
and i can trace my fingers
along your laugh lines on your face
from the times we shared together
and as the minds drifts with time
so does your memory
“The blade had been wrought in the fires of Na’thuth. Its metal is the finest in all the land. The hilt is made of gold and has been adorned with countless precious jewels. It is a sword truly worthy of a knight such as yourself.”
The wrought iron stood in his way, as he stared at her window. Why now? Why this right now?
I wrung my hands and wiped my brow. What time did he say he would be home? I paced across the floor and glanced out of the window. Where was he? I couldn’t believe that I allowed him out of my sight even for a minute.
Now that I can’t stand upright any more, I’m wrought with the realization that I may have to spend the rest of my life like this, always looking up at people.
The chains you’ve wrought
are wound around my wrists.
I can’t run away from you
and you drag me
down
down
down
until there’s nothing but you, me and the darkness.
I don’t know whether I want to run away,
or whether I just enjoy the chase, and pull, and haul.
You’re just taking me down
into loving you.
Once upon a time there is a worm named wrought who loves to go on adventures.
One day he came upon a sparkling gem. He thought it might be magical.
So he tried to rub and see what happens but nothing changed. He thought it is not magical after all but anyway he wants to keep it.
It wrought destruction. Everywhere it turned, everywhere it sought out life, it left destruction in its wake. It was desperate and violent. It had no thought or cares for the needy. It thought only of itself. Only of survival.
Look at what you’ve done. He runs his hand through his hair, and he cannot believe you. You don’t believe you. You are a wreck, the debris too close to the event and no one wants to see you. You are painful. You hurt. You hurt him so much. This. This is what you’ve wrought.
“Do you have any idea what evil you have wrought, child?”
I sneered, my fingers wrapped tight around the bars of my cell. “What makes you think I care?”
One of the men stepped forward, slipping his hands between the bars to grasp at my shirt and tug me closer. “Watch your tongue, witch.”
I laughed.
its the same thing when i was young ,the meanless idea of not to be on place. outside in the port side of the coast
And her strong will was wrought into a twisted shape. They kept hitting with that steel hammer until she finally crumpled, leaving a scarred version of her once beautiful self as their suvenire.
The storm wrought havoc on the small village. The day after the little settlement was barely recognizable. The thatched roofs were blown off the huts, utensils and other items of daily use littered the dirt roads, and the palm trees lay dead and helpless.
I will wring my hands out
But you look wrought with pain
Perfect skin and rosey lips
Mascara on your cheek
Oh dear, is something wrong?
Sorrow doesn’t suit a face
As tightly glued as yours
A budding rose, a bloodied arm
Oh dear, let’s clean you up
He wrought down the only words he could think about.
The only ones that mattered.
On the piece of paper that was covered with tears.
Everything was broken and shattered.
the gates had been wrought out of gold and silver. Silver bears paraded across the top as symbols of the royalty that lived in the house beyond. The gold glittered in the morning sun as the gates swung open to admit the carriage onto the grounds.
It wasn’t my pain to feel but the cloud she brought with her soaked my apartment. It had been years since sorrow poured so heavily in my bubble. I did the prudent thing, I welcomed it.
Without myself i tryed to be, the only thing that kept me with my feet on earth was that since i saw you i’d wrought you a thousand letters, lucky me i had no adress to send them to, lucky love we didn’t ever met.
Wrought with pain? Filled with it? Everything I’ve ever heard go hand-in-hand with the word “wrought” has been negative. Hearing it makes me dread the news of what’s to come.
I don’t even know what this means exactly. Uh… is it like when you strain the water out of something but in the past tense? I don’t know. Crappy first word.
The situation was wrought with danger. There were dragons flying overhead, raining fire down upon them. There were ogres in front of them with tree trunks in hand, bludgeoning all who came in their path. The air was filled with the smell of burned and rotting flesh.