Answer:
I move without wings between silken strings. I leave as you find my substance behind
So cold damp and dark I am. To stay you would refrain yet those who occupy me do never complain.
Some will use me, others not. Some have remembered, others forgot. For profit or gain, I'm used expertly. I can't be picked off the ground or tossed into the sea. What am I?
When set loose I fly away. Never so cursed as when I go astray.
A hundred arms, a thousand fingers, but I have no eyes to see where I linger. What am I?
It flows out of the soil, It burns you if it boils, And holds us in its coils, More valuable than gold, As black as it is old.