Do you have in your hand the needle to thread this torn fabric that makes up my insides?
Will you become the sower of my soul?
Are you the magic tailor that will piece these rags together?
Do you hold the precious needle, that will patch up all these holes?
Can you turn rips into smooth lines and folds?
Will your gentle hands be so kind.
A peaceful wholeness will I ever find?
I am a crazy quilt of schemes and dreams.
Can you cut out all of the mistakes without using sharp scissors?
Can you decipher this mess of me, and create new seams?
I'm telling you right now, I come with neither a pattern nor a plan.
I don't know how many new renditions you will be steady enough to stand.
Will you be my magic tailor, and sew up all these rips.
Do you hold the needle in your hand, and the thread in your lips?