Hands

Clinched in a fist
The moment of birth,
The hands tattle-tale on the soul.
Bound to the wrist,
Oh, how much they're worth.
And yet, only parts of the whole.

To swing the gavel
That pounds the bench,
And thus, punctuates the sentence.
To grip the shovel
That digs the trench
In spite of the killers repentance.

To wield the blade
That pierces the backs
Of anyone found in the way.
Then come to the aid
That poverty lacks,
And carry the weight of the day.

They cling to the ledge,
Refuse to let go,
And hold on that to that final breath.
Once over the edge
It seems to be so,
The hands will release all at death.