Velveteen Rabbit:
left forgotten on the floor,
overlooked, shy, sawdust-made,
snubbed by the grand and mechanical,
a world of prideful toys,
and absent understanding.

Timothy, the wooden lion,
boasts of his noble ties,
the painted boat speaks
in the language of rigging.
Yet Rabbit finds no place,
nor kinship in hollow superiority.

Only Skin Horse, aged,
fur rubbed bare and stories deep,
holds wisdom born of wear,
eyes soft but steady
with truths of nursery magic
that runs through the hands of love:

"Real," whispers the sage, 

“Is not in buzz nor brass,
but in the wear of time,
the touch of belonging.
Love, long and true,
binds sawdust tighter than springs.”

Rabbit listens,
the question of hurt unfolds,
fragility met with truth.

"You become," says the elder,
slowly, deeply, undeniably,
until your shabbiness glows
as something others misunderstand.

A smile seals the tale,
a dream born in trust,
one day, perhaps,
Rabbit will be Real.