So, once was told to a shy girl the world was hers...
In fright, in sheer terror - the world for her was under the covers
The dancing trapeze animals alive in her blanket -- consistently distracting her from her abstract, constant fears
The wondrous squeals joined in with her, other children too.
The quiet tent, tight, small, concealed.
Nothing would leave -- the ideas of far reaching dreams would stir floating about, in the tent's humid, sweaty, sticky cover - like swirling fireflies
The tent was alive, contrived of dreams - dreams bigger than her palm.
And she never wanted to leave
She always slept with the blanket over her head, up until she was old enough....
Time passed, the blanket was to small to cover her head.
She felt the cold air press against her soft, rosy cheek
But, it was a stinging cold,
One she could not shake.
And it was there the hot air, turned into frightening pierces of reality.
Bare to the chill, bare to it all.
Bare to her very core.
But the tent was no longer a tent.
She felt the sting in her skin.
Sting in her veins. Her blood.
The emptiness of the golden blanket, oh, what a circus tent it was to her youth.
A blanket of dreams, a blanket of play, a blanket were the freedom of life could grow, develop, flourish -- ignite!
Now, it's just a blanket.
A blanket were anxieties, deep fear, depression, pent up rage, do not find the light of day in a circus getaway