Where the Wild Watches Over Us

Times, when the body rests, but the soul keeps traveling.

Eyes veiled, wandering into the cosmic unknown.

She lies unguarded—bare, vulnerable, still.

But peace is not weakness. It is trust.

It is knowing you are not alone,

even in the quiet spaces of the dreamscape.

Beside her, the wild waits. Half-guardian, half-mirror,

Like —

someone who knows her storms and still chooses to stay.

And when she leaves, his eyes follow,

across the street, across the space between, lingering a little longer,

holding her softly in his quiet watch.

Not tamed, not caged—just present,

bound by something gentler than fear.

What does it mean to be held by something so fierce?

To be watched over by the part of us that refuses to bow,

that carries instinct sharper than fear,

that knows the night more intimately than we do?

Is it not the wild within us—quiet, untamed

—that keeps watch until morning breaks?

And when dawn arrives,

was it ever just a dream, or something more alive than we remember?