The hands form what you live in.
Standards, values, what you believe in.
Cross that line, commit a sin.
You'll forever stand out, and never get back in
again.
YOU ARE READING
The Puppeteer's Playground
PoetryWhere the hands have taken over, the place we're calling home. Poems about what matters and what doesn't, to whoever and whatever. Poetry book ||| Cover by me
