“Warriors have emerged from the ashes of trials and sacrifices.”

Looking at her, you would feel she was a porcelain doll with eyes full of fire and flames of life, that washed her away from the air bubbles of uncertainty.

If you look at her she is plain and white, blink your eyes and look again, she is filled with every color of this universe embedded in simplicity.

She has a bunny, that sleeps on her palm, he wished it was his hand in her palm instead.

Her veins are filled with the ink that writes onto the paper of her life and canvas.

She kneeled in front of him and drank away the teardrops, that was the power she held with her healing aura.

She is the lighthouse that guards the ship, the shore, the sea of his life, without her, there is no him.

Her end was her beginning, and her every new start was the end to her old version.

She wanted him to touch her velvety plush and blossom core, till she moans out words of prose and poetry.

Her thunders, storms, lightning, are destructive or life-giving but it all depends on who is standing in front of her.

She wish to read the minds of those who smiled wickedly at her, let her be the wolf to devour madness.

She is a woman, with softness in her smiles and pores but a steel firm core that is an epitome of strength.

Will you cherish me or ravish me with your wildness, if you were to know who I am in reality?

She stood at the tip of obstacles, but never blind to the light of faith.

It pains to be insulted every time you breathe when I am your oxygen but you have to wish to breathe.

I look at the lines around his eyes, they are my road map to my happiness.

She had a precious light in her heart, that kept him alive in the moments he desired death, she was his savior.

Well, then,” he said. “Let’s do it.” “What?” Vin asked. “Save the world.” Elend said. “Stop the ash.

All right,” Spook said. He reached to the ground, scooping up a pile of ash. “Let’s just rub this into your clothing and on your face….” Breeze froze. “I’ll meet you back ath the lair,” he finally said.

We flew over to England by the same route Churchill took. It was easy. All we had to do was follow the cigar ashes.

The Passion of the Christ opened up on Ash Wednesday, had a Good Friday.

When it’s time to shuffle off this mortal coil, you leave your ashes to be composted.

When passion is mutual, there is always the danger of the fire burning to ashes.

I have learned that you’re not perfect, and that sometimes the one you love can burn you. But it’s just the fool that’s looking backwards: a bitter heart turns the love we made to ashes.

Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few, And soon the grassy coverlet of God Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.