My father took me to the circus, once.
Pink candyfloss spun in a web of sugar cotton
and the acrobats whose contortions mystified my childlike eyes
Flames simmered and sparks flew,
like that little girl's smile when she learnt how to love.

She's older, now.
And her father doesn't take her to the circus
or the zoo
because she's too old for it.
And she thinks it's childish.

And really, she knows that time ticks,
no matter what,
but she is resilient,
her reflection warped by someone else's ideas.

She can't bring herself
to think of what she has left.