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Hands


An instrument that soothes the pain, heals the soul, and orchestrates a symphony of euphoria.
A simple instrument so diverse yet so simplistic to the naked eye that causes an array of colors clashing in the wind. The sweetest smell of floral citrus that hushes the tribulations of my world.
Tranquility now, next comes hues of baby blue and pastel pink. Glimmers of neon yellows of our hearty laughs; streams of red as intense as our smiles. An array of colors clashing in the wind.
The smell of earth engulfs the fields our hands tended to as the rain replenishes the land, quenches the thirst of our mother earth, our souls.
Vibrant tones of orange and reds, the sunset cascades over; tranquil hands lull our mother earth. An array of colors clashing in the wind.
Your hands will be here tomorrow, and tomorrow, and the next, for there is no death in our colors clashing in the wind.
An intricate instrument that composes a symphony of euphoria. A score composed of dopamine and Lucy in the sky birthing a kaleidoscope of memories.
Whimsical tones of sopranos, altos, and tenors fill my ears. Graceful piccolos that trill the sweetest sounds of birds chirping on the cloudiest of days.
Crashing waves of drums, whistling winds of spirited alto flutes, lightning bugs painting streams of fire red, blood orange and royal blue with the notes of a saxophone.
My tribulations dancing atop some timpani. Your hands always composing a new score that decrescendos the crashing waves of drums and booming thunder of some timpani. Your hands eternally composing scores that devour these tribulations and birth memories, past and present. Future has no choice for your hands will be here tomorrow, and tomorrow, and the next.


-- Yesenia F., Adult