The Keeper Of Quiet Dreams

The Keeper Of Quiet Dreams

I learned early how to hang hope carefully,

not to trap the dark, only to slow it.

Every thread was placed with intention,

every knot a promise not to rush healing.

Dreams were never meant to be loud or demanding,

they survive better when treated gently.

I kept them away from careless hands,

away from voices that mistook patience for weakness.

Feathers carried memories I could not speak,

soft enough to move without breaking.

They listened when the world hurried past me,

they understood the language of waiting.

Nothing here was built for perfection,

only for balance and return.

Each circle learned the shape of my breathing,

each silence held without collapsing.

I learned that protection does not mean control,

it means allowing space without abandonment.

Dreams need room to shift and change,

to survive disappointment without shame.

There were nights when hope felt fragile,

when believing required deliberate effort.

Still, I kept watch without demanding answers,

trusting that meaning would arrive quietly.

Time did not steal what I guarded,

it refined my understanding of value.

What remains is not untouched,

it is strengthened by care and restraint.

I stand now as the keeper, not the owner,

aware that dreams choose when to stay.

They remain because they are respected,

and because I learned how to wait.