My Arms Are Chains

My hands hold the days
Through the soft and harsh.
Nicked and scratched, though solid,
They’ve become one with steel;
With stone; with wood; with earth;
And flesh. They’ve held my blood,
They’ve nursed my crop.
Here, now, they even write my thoughts
And strum the chords on tuned guitar.
Sometimes I question
Their devotion, their desire.
All slaves revolt eventually.
When the chains break,
Perhaps one day
Our faces will be fingers.