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The Hand That Reaches Forth. By CpSingleton © 2014
Your black, scarred hand reaches forth
To take mine roughly.
Where will you lead me?
What vacuum will you drop me in?
Will you laugh scornfully as you
Tear me from this cracked shell
Scatter me like dry bread for the
Pigeons of the hereafter?
Can a hand such as yours:
Cold and loveless,
Guide to warmer climes,
Where war and hate is but
A sad shrug for the lost?
Is it false hope that swings
A heart like a plastic scry
Over images of divine light
In hope that it’s rays will
Stretch out and embrace them?
A redundant thought…
For fantasy writers such as the other me.
One hour the truth will out.