Like a warm little blanket, or a message from a note.

As a child, I feared within the dark.

I later take such as a work of art.

Glazed in a clear coat, the moon rest aglow.

Within the warm blanket, like a bright flake of snow.

The comfort of my bed, the flicker of hope.

I hope my dear poems can soon help me cope.

But for now, while it lay, I shall go to bed.

While moments for poems will dance in my head.