Tag: tree

As usual, there was no sign of life outside
He knew that he would get no answers
When a vacuum forms, something has to come along to fill it
It is the place where he is meant to be lost
As soon as he closed the book, he had to come back to the real world
There were funny stories, moving stories, and violent stories
What exactly do you think you’re doing?
Of course they were happy to be there
No one looked at anyone else, or had to be looked at
I barely remember that life
Are you two going to sit here all night?
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You can’t share pain
I’m not saying I’m right
He could hardly go back to what he had been
He had run and left it behind. He had run
You don’t want to go somewhere new?
They had all the love and kindness and gentleness covered
It’s never a bad time to talk strategy
How long has it been since he’s had a normal workday?
He has no one to take care of and he can relax
Big and heavy movements, but delicate, too, in all the subtle, reactive leaves
I loved the mysterious darkness of the trees
I stopped and tried to get my breath
I can remember being flooded with happiness once
A bus would come eventually, and take them north
His young eyes stored away each play of light
I have always tried to avoid pain
We’re having a little tension in here today
It is hours to go before you sleep
Everything is still for a while
There is no innocence in this city
A person’s not supposed to go through life with absolutely nobody
Nothing. There was nothing. Nobody there in the dark
I see no undue cause for worry
There was no less old-fashioned way to put it
A half-baked suburban variety of witchcraft
I couldn’t think of anything to say so I kept quiet
Freedom was what they sought. Struggle was what they had lived through
For him the green of the field was a magic light
He wondered whether he had counted right
Life had moved on and left you behind floundering in its wake
If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it
When night came he just sat, at the foot of a tree
It moves and changes from one kind of black to another
There’re five or six kinds of black. Some silky, some woolly
He feels as if he were forgetting something
She thought no poem she’d ever read had been so beautiful
She was just waiting for him, then they’d walk back to town
I don’t think anybody’s here