The Mutilated Mind

What happens to the mutilated mind?
What will we find?

Is it like a sundried flower
A hint of fragrance, no power?

Easily blown by the sweetest wind
Tossed by nature, crushed by men?

Or is it a shell more shattered than most
An unfulfilled dream, an empty host?

It spoke to me directly one fine day
In a small voice, this is what it had to say:

I know you think I am damaged beyond repair
Not settling on one thought, going here and there

I'm not a vessel that appears to be lost
I am a hidden sundry but valuable in cost

Tucked away in the lining of a skeletal purse
I don't need a doctor, I don't need a nurse

What I need is to be consoled; I need love
Grace, compassion and strength from above

Then out of creative darkness, you will see
I am mutilated no more, I am free