What thrives when you feed it, and dies when you give it a drink?

A tiny titan, securing wood with silent strength, the key to a sound structure. Its head bears a crown, and it takes the forceful blows without complaint. At its point, it drives ambition home.

Where liquid spills through your hands, I can hold it safely and easily. I'm a rocket that never launches, Sitting on a shelf rather than a launch pad. My mouth is forever puckered, Frozen in such surprise that I'll lose the contents of my stomach if I'm tipped over. I'm often clear but also green, assuming you recycle.

I look like a blimp with a name that can win, I’m lighter than air, though I’m heavy in tin.

An empty shell crumbles to dust, under a ghastly moon. What remains is barely there, a shadow of a cocoon...