These are the pieces of my tapestry,
the frayed threads with which my life is patched together.
They hold no beauty on their own,
they are the pieces of an unknowable story when held alone.
The story they will tell when pulled together is yet unseen,
mystery beyond the imaginings of the one who brings these scraps.
These tattered pieces, these incomplete parts
the images: loneliness, despair and uncertainty, fear.
To whom can I entrust them?
What can be made with this?
the frayed threads with which my life is patched together.
They hold no beauty on their own,
they are the pieces of an unknowable story when held alone.
The story they will tell when pulled together is yet unseen,
mystery beyond the imaginings of the one who brings these scraps.
These tattered pieces, these incomplete parts
the images: loneliness, despair and uncertainty, fear.
To whom can I entrust them?
What can be made with this?
