You told me once, long ago,
that your dolls' house burnt down.
A slight statement, not much to share,
accompanied by a longing frown.
The flames still flicker in your eyes,
I see – every time you turn away.
And you flinch at gold and silver and burgundy
and the memories they portray.
You shy away from fairy tales,
keep them firmly on their shelves.
You don't wish to play in a fantasy world
among fairies, pixies and elves.
I cannot put it back together
from piles of age old dust,
but if you wait just long enough
I can help to rebuild your trust.
I'll starting with trying to build you a house –
not made for dolls this time.
No miniature furniture that can be crushed
in unforgivable crime.
I'll use paint and bricks and mortar,
with not an ounce of wood
that can catch the flame unexpectedly,
tear itself down because it could.
Take so much time to get it right,
to get the foundations secure and strong.
Turn a world of dream into solid reality –
what it should have been all along.
Something real for you to hold
before you drown in that plastic sea.
To raise you up, to let you breathe,
a place for you to just be.
When bedtime comes you shall know
that is it safe to go to sleep.
For, when you wake up, it will still be here –
unlike a dolls' house, this you can keep.