In the dark of the evening
As rain was pouring down,
Stringthing walked alone
In the nearby town.
Every street was empty,
Every house was asleep,
There was no sign of life
But a man made of string.
He came to a stop
At a small sewing shop,
With his stringy body he slipped
Beneath the locked door
And into the store.
He picked fabrics and threads
As he walked by every shelf,
And tucked them away
Into his stringy self.
Leaving his change
In the register drawer,
He tucked himself away
Beneath the door once more.
But on his way back
In the streetlamp's dim pall,
He came upon the path
A ragged, cragged doll.
She was tattered over all
From her feet to her head,
Her smile was gone,
She had one button eye left,
This mangled, wrangled doll
Was truly left for dead.
And as her eye,
Her big, bright, blue button eye,
Drenched with the tears
That fell from the sky,
Stared at the Stringthing towered on high,
His heartstrings within him started to cry.
So he picked up the doll
From the ground cold and damp,
YOU ARE READING
Stringthing
PoetryStringthing, a man made of strings, Lives a quiet life sewing All manner of things. All he wants is to share His creations with all, To bring a multitude of smiles Through his teddies and dolls. But he's all tangled up In what others think of him...
