In commanding hands, words are quanta, able to defy hypothesis into hyperbole, inverting whim and enslaving spacetime to our bidding.
In delicate hands, words are panacea, lifting and lilting, balm to blame and suffering, a communion across nothingness to reassure another one they're not alone and they got this.
In destructive hands, words are warheads, extincting the unfortunate, flaying soul from neurons, reversing empowerment mantras and crosshairing targets for dismissal.
In instructive hands, words are waymeans, sharing wisdom in balance with gentle scolds, conveying lines of sight with lines of insight and transforming common experience into uncommon legends.
These are my hands, capable and willing of any outcome. Pull up a seat, sit a spell and show me what your hands create.