Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Divining rod of hope

In the end, the imprint does its damage.
Half white ghost dining in grays,
Haunting the caverns of every mind
Quick to dismiss it.
No one is here, the emptiness is restless
And looking to claim lives.
The white, billowy wisps of fear saunter silently
Through these hallways,
Captivating lost souls along the way.
It is a collector, though barely of this world.
You take it by the hand, going nowhere,
Courting it like a lost love before
Realizing that only doom awaits here.
In the end, the damage is irreparable.
You are no more ghost than I,
But I still cannot see you.


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Divining rod of hope

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