Threads

I am sold to the open I am holding a sail to the sky I won't trade for a closing I don't want to sell bread for mud pies My mind is broke and I'm not a handyman I'm not a wealthy man but you can with sticks and hands come stitch a pulse where the threads have ran You are not a fallen angel you are not far away from my side and breathing soft in the morning blowing off all the scales of nighttime And I can't hold my own when the blood is there when tiny eyes do stare but you can with joyful hands come wrap a blanket around this man