Listen to poem:
More Than A Soft Toy
Written: September 04, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
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She held a blanket, such a breath—
soft, flexible, and incarnadine.
Not just fabric, but a cherished friend
who coruscated in the empyrean
of her private dusk.
To others, it was just a childhood comfort—
a trite trope of childhood ilk.
But to her, it was a jussive voice,
a cognate spirit,
a consanguineous echo
of all she dared not say aloud.
She whispered in xenoglossia to its folds,
dressed it in pavonine dreams,
and understood its silence
as a balm for dyspnea and dread.
It released her from the maelstrom
of parental tohubohu,
from the paucity of understanding
In a world too careless to listen.
Even now, her adult self
acknowledges its glamor—
a palimpsest of nepenthe and pertinacity.
She knows it was never alive,
never truly aware.
But what does that matter?
The psyche is a hive of need,
and comfort is no flapdoodle.
Whether a toy, a blanket, or an imaginary friend,
These are obstacles we overcome
to reach meliorism.
And if the child within
still clutches that scantling of solace,
let her.
In that mix of truth and delusions.
dwells the most astounding type of therapy.
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