Rigor mortis

Strong hands,
scarred from work's toll.
Wounded testimony
to life's toil.

Every mark,
a moment
carved in time.
Etched in faded memories.

Rigid now,
ordained by death's decree
a resting place
for well-worn wooden beads.

No more,
the subtle thread
through fingers
seeking solace
in whispered supplication.

Silent,
the sacred chant
that soothed your soul
and strengthened your resolve
to clench in vice-like grip
what destiny determined.

At peace now
joined in prayer
and resting,
resting.

Eternal rest.
A cradle substituted for a grave.