Not big hands
Not broad hands
Four fingers and one thumb on each
No chipped nails
No pale band from a ring
Only a few tiny scars
Not dried out
Not scaly
Lightly callused from life
No bumps
No vanes
Just one cracked cuticle
Not aged by arthritis
Not deformed by time
A labyrinth of lines across each palm
The nails are short
All painted blue
No dirt or dead skin underneath
Simple and plain
As most hands go
Nothing unique that’s shown
These hands have seen work
Felt pains and pleasure
But never were recognized for all their exertion
So long they’d slaved
Just past the wrists
All with few words of complaint
Now they seem young
Ready to live
Sadly their master is unable to use them anymore
Though not old
Or dead to this day
Movement has left its host to another end
Hands sit unused
Legs unwalked
While the brain sits and wishes they weren’t
Alone and sad
Remembering those times
Now all lost in one sad day
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