The Thimble and Me
By J. A. Weymouth
There is a fundamental sense of loss,
Discredited, false, sapling mind that is –
too claustrophobic in its set of ideas.
An infertile thimble now stationed to toss,
Only, at the bottom end of it can I see
Some form of worth.
She takes every opportunity to waste life.
The tall one does not seek the knife,
Don’t misunderstand this as a euphemism for suicide.
Only luck can handle this.
And with an open palm
Can one hold onto the channeling of joy –
Such freshness is met by widened eyes.