I let it pull from my one hand into the next,
And i feel the pull out past my fingertips.
Inch by inch it drops into oblivion,
Stitch by stitch the thread gives out, the seam it splits.
Pour it all, all there is, is this all, all that I contain.
Even when not a single stitch in me remains.
And the fabric of a man folds up in vain.
Well I feel it pulling now, it's almost half past hell and i'm waiting.
And I feel it pulling now, come on take my hand but believe me.
If a man I cannot stay, take the scraps and stitch what's remaining.
And I feel it pulling now, come on take some thread and create me.
String and a metaphor for life is all I am,
Threadbare, the spark erodes in an instant.
When the dream it dreams itself through seamstress' hands.
It's just thread on thread through thread making meaning.
Never a man was made who's life it can constrain.
Even a man of thread is living just the same.