ThreadBare
Ive been cut down to my seams
The pain was far worse than it seems
Some people seem to spend their day sharpening their blades
And some people stare at their seams till their vision fades
They Mark every Thread
Because if they couldn't, they'd rather be dead
Im the latter, and Ive known too many former
its like their blades sharpen with every corner
But something strange happens when you've been cut enough, Ive found
The Threads that are left? Their roots form the ground
And as you find the will to stand
slowly planting your feet, making sure its not just sand
A question comes drifting in
It floats like a feather, but lands like a prison
And when you finally see it, you question your vision
Its clear as day
It couldn't have gone any other way
All the cuts, all the pain
They have laid it out plain
Would I have found these threads on my own?
Or did all those blades help me to see, whats left isn't thread. Its Stone.
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