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Writing is like falling in love; scary, stunning, difficult, amazing, big sweeping gestures, and falling from a plane... but it's worth it.
This poem's a part of a longer piece from one of my past works. But I loved this last part so much, I thought I would just make it it's own little thing.
Fingers made of greed,
grip this world
by the
sleeves,
though they aren't
easy to see,
unless your eyes
have been
opened
by our
Heavenly
King.
Money is the root of all evil. And so many have been ensnared by it.

— The End —