The Hands that Shape

There’s no shortage of imagination; there to sweep you off your feet and fly you around with the same force its tendrils, poison black, slither up to your throat and cut out the sound.

The black spirit that preys on the weak runners fleeing through the desperate wood, but also the light through the prism that makes the rainbow stream. So strong no matter heads or tails, right or wrong, kind or cruel, and without it we’d be nothing.

It makes no promises though and may still leave us with nothing in the end.

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