A Quote by Stephen King

Her body was wrapped in shadows like moth wings, like rose-petals. — © Stephen King
Her body was wrapped in shadows like moth wings, like rose-petals.
The moth don't care when he sees the flame He might get burned, but he's in the game And once he's in, he can't go back He'll beat his wings till he burns them black No, the moth don't care when he sees the flame The moth don't care if the flame is real 'Cause flame and moth got a sweetheart deal And nothing fuels a good flirtation Like need and anger and desperation No, the moth don't care if the flame is real.
The moth settled onto the curtain and sat still. It was an astonishing creature, with black and white wings patterned in geometric shapes, scarlet underwings, and a fat white body with black spots running down it like a snowman's coal buttons. No human eye had looked at this moth before; no one would see its friends. So much detail goes unnoticed in the world.
Do thou smile like the rose at loss and gain; For the rose, though its petals be torn asunder, Still smiles on, and it is never cast down.
Shadows in shadows He watches through dreams Wings black as Africa Body strong as stone Done waiting The ravens call.
Night after night the nightingale came to beg for divine love, but though the rose trembled at the sound of his voice, her petals remained closed to him...Flower and bird, two species never meant to mate. Yet at length the rose overcame her fear and from that single, forbidden union was born the red rose that Allah never intended the world to know.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart
Then your fingers moved down to my chin. You pushed it up with your thumb to look at me, almost like you were studying me in the artificial lights above my head. And, I mean, you really looked at me … with eyes like two stars. [...] And I had wings fluttering away inside me all right. Big fat moth wings. You trapped me easily, drew me toward you like I was already in the net.
if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have one. It will not be a pansy heaven or a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but it will be a heaven of blackred roses my father will be(deep like a rose tall like a rose) standing near my swaying over her (silent) with eyes which are really petals and see nothing with the face of a poet really which is a flower and not a face with hands which whisper This is my beloved my (suddenly in sunlight he will bow, and the whole garden will bow)
The circus tent was flowing pale in the rain like a fleshy flower lit from within. It seemed to bloom in the downpour. Drops of rain caught on Rafe's eyelashes, blinding him as the circus light struck them. He groped for the flap, that slit in the fabric that would reveal her to him. She was on the rope again, her skirt flashing with tiny mirrors, hair braided with petals. He looked up at her, dizzy with it, seeing her face framed in the parasol. There were bluish shadows around her eyes.
In the middle of a garden grew a rose tree; it was full of roses, and in the loveliest of them all lived an elf. He was so tiny that no human eye could see him. He had a snug little room behind every petal of the rose. He was as well made and as perfect as any human child, and he had wings reaching from his shoulders to his feet. Oh, what a delicious scent there was in his room, and how lovely and transparent the walls were, for they were palest pink, rose petals.
Fly away, pretty moth, to the shade Of the leaf where you slumbered all day; Be content with the moon and the stars, pretty moth, And make use of your wings while you may. . . . . But tho' dreams of delight may have dazzled you quite, They at last found it dangerous play; Many things in this world that look bright, pretty moth, Only dazzle to lead us astray.
My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose; and all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; it is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream.
There is no end to the petals of the inner rose. Continue to unfold set after set of petals until you have completed your meditation session.
Visualize a beautiful rose in the center of your chest. Imagine a soft reddish rose. Imagine that the rose is completely folded up. Visualize the first set of petals is gradually unfolding.
Images cluttered the pages, but one tattoo set her nerves on edge; inky black eyes surrounded by wings likes shadows coalescing. Mine. The thought, the need, the reaction was overpowering. Leslie looked up. "This one." she said. "I need this one. But the image is more than just tempting art, and it draws her into a world of shadows and desire- into the world of Faerie.
At first we raced through space, like shadows and light; her rants, my raves; her dark hair, my blonde; black dresses, white. She's a purple-black African-violet-dark butterfly and I a white moth. We were two wild ponies, Dawn and Midnight, the wind electrifying our manes and our hooves quaking the city; we were photo negatives of each other, together making the perfect image of a girl.
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