in my own tent

If I ever need to stop dreaming, I would not do so.
I would instead stare through the skylight of my tent.

And if a breeze of courage once did came, it went.
For I never so moved an inch, but only curled.

Curled instinctively into my smaller world.
Where I could feel no one as I studied the stars.

What is it, I asked them, that laminates our scars?
Is it the fear of permanence?—

Or the tiring act of emotional balance?
I do not need your starlight, I only wish to go.

And if I could only stop dreaming, then I would do so.