There's a little thimble on the table beside me.
It's got many ways about it and holes hardly porous - having been poked alot. Decrepit and platonic, but never finger worn.
Too tight and asymmetrical.
Pretending to function; functional for appearances.
Traveling in purses and bags along side crumbs and mints.
How natural it is to get lost beside its surroundings.
Not to catch tears, not to drink in reconciliation, but rather to fill with an interminable flood of infatuation. It will jump and flip in the excitement of anticipated filling. And how fast it will drown in its contents. Alas thimbles don't breathe!
(filled and overflowed)
It's a listless swimming with an addictive rhythm. The passive versus the penetrating. So grounded to the table of cautious passion. So careful as to worry the inevitability of its tipping.
(tips)
Still enveloped, surrounded, covered in the sediments laying on its side - a hopeful side that can only crumble and sogg. And a year will pass this way trying to get back up. The safe place before the flood. Establishing its larger base finally, all light-headed. A recovery quite unrecognizable but thimble thinks itself stable.
Already impatient.
Willing to dance and dive and be permeated.
All over again.
...
How weary it will be.
Tip, tip, so quick.
The only time I'm no Lorris. The only time I'm rapid.
I'll wait in silence dreading the very idleness that is the answer.
The rain and the city's rustle will take the place of that silence just as well. And I'll hope that the wet droplets will spare me 'from all emergencies of passion and fill me [only] with the spongy serenity of a lack of appetite.'
Two months and a year.
It's got many ways about it and holes hardly porous - having been poked alot. Decrepit and platonic, but never finger worn.
Too tight and asymmetrical.
Pretending to function; functional for appearances.
Traveling in purses and bags along side crumbs and mints.
How natural it is to get lost beside its surroundings.
Not to catch tears, not to drink in reconciliation, but rather to fill with an interminable flood of infatuation. It will jump and flip in the excitement of anticipated filling. And how fast it will drown in its contents. Alas thimbles don't breathe!
(filled and overflowed)
It's a listless swimming with an addictive rhythm. The passive versus the penetrating. So grounded to the table of cautious passion. So careful as to worry the inevitability of its tipping.
(tips)
Still enveloped, surrounded, covered in the sediments laying on its side - a hopeful side that can only crumble and sogg. And a year will pass this way trying to get back up. The safe place before the flood. Establishing its larger base finally, all light-headed. A recovery quite unrecognizable but thimble thinks itself stable.
Already impatient.
Willing to dance and dive and be permeated.
All over again.
...
How weary it will be.
Tip, tip, so quick.
The only time I'm no Lorris. The only time I'm rapid.
I'll wait in silence dreading the very idleness that is the answer.
The rain and the city's rustle will take the place of that silence just as well. And I'll hope that the wet droplets will spare me 'from all emergencies of passion and fill me [only] with the spongy serenity of a lack of appetite.'
Two months and a year.
Thimble, you'd make a better key chain.
Thimble giver:
dear thimble, you snubbed and berated the tiny fake top hat, terrier, iron, boot, car, ship, plough, and wagon and dreamed of fulfilling your dreams and proper usage over the phony recreational representation. you were disappointed at the initial result of your freedom (albeit captively) when you were selected over the real thimble to be given as a gift token to someone else. what do you ultimately miss?
the poor thimble will never find belonging.
dear thimble, you served more of a purpose when you were alongside your classically unrelated Monolopy pawns.
you were stolen, and sat beside what you emulated - belonging? diminishment? you were given away, with the illusion that you held meaning, contempt, and served as more-or-less a symbol of what which you are neither.
on your own, you are useless. hardly forgotten, you are told.
but go ahead, compare yourself to others, dream about being a real thimble, being stabbed over and over, protecting someone else from harm.
go ahead, live in the past, dream about collecting dust in an attic inside a cardboard boxed set, growing old with the ones you say you loved.
or rather, go ahead, accept living in the gutter, make a home within the depths of a travelling purse, living in fear of being dumped at any minute.
dear thimble, you will never know or stop to fathom that people admire you, and spend time writing tributes to you. you are put on an illusionary pedestal that is so high it's practically sarcastic.
the poor thimble will never find belonging.
dear thimble, you served more of a purpose when you were alongside your classically unrelated Monolopy pawns.
you were stolen, and sat beside what you emulated - belonging? diminishment? you were given away, with the illusion that you held meaning, contempt, and served as more-or-less a symbol of what which you are neither.
on your own, you are useless. hardly forgotten, you are told.
but go ahead, compare yourself to others, dream about being a real thimble, being stabbed over and over, protecting someone else from harm.
go ahead, live in the past, dream about collecting dust in an attic inside a cardboard boxed set, growing old with the ones you say you loved.
or rather, go ahead, accept living in the gutter, make a home within the depths of a travelling purse, living in fear of being dumped at any minute.
dear thimble, you will never know or stop to fathom that people admire you, and spend time writing tributes to you. you are put on an illusionary pedestal that is so high it's practically sarcastic.
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