Here lies a coiled ball of twine, mud, and dry dirt. Soaked and cold waiting to be held by a warm pair of hands, but who could hold such a thing as this.
It doesn't scream “practical” in a resourceful voice nor does it mumble "beautiful" below its breath.
Maybe art, maybe someone will walk past it in an alley and think ART, pull up some plastic crate from the back door of some neighboring restaurant, and surmise they ought to sit and contemplate it some more.
The longevity of thought could be employed, to elevate this alley clump. The red bricks, a red carpet leading to the dirtied yarn, who but it could hold service better than a priest.
a yarn grave marker for the all the dirt clumps floating in your head and those tucked behind the pulmonary trunk.
There you could sit, and perhaps feel inclined enough to reach out and take it into your two palms.
Hold the thing few people might want to hold for fear of rethinking beauty.