I come from the line of moon-whisperers,
star-map readers, bone-shakers, truth-keepers—
where dreams were not soft illusions
but altars raised in the night.
I come from clouds, I roam through mist,
I come from prayers my bloodlines kissed.
I come from dreamers—wild and wise,
I come with stars behind my eyes.
My grandfather walked with dreams
like sacred scrolls beneath his tongue,
He walked with stars beneath his feet,
He walked through realms where silence speaks.
He waits in smoke with an open hand,
He waits to show me the sacred land.
My grandmother’s dreams built houses,
where lost souls came to rest.
Her sleep was spirit-fed,
She built with threads of red
She held the names of those long gone,
She held the night until the dawn.
There she is—my matriarch of peace,
There she builds where lost souls cease.
Walls of silence held secrets in their beams—
old hymns, healing chants, whispered names
of those who had forgotten themselves.
But in her sleep, she remembered them all.
I dream in firelight and river pulse,
in lion-footed shadows and storm-torn skies.
I dream in languages I’ve never spoken
but always understood.
The Dream King of the now—
not for crowns or gold or conquest,
But for the way I sit with my visions,
gentle, listening, never turning away.
I rise from dreams with my heart undone,
I rise like moons that chase the sun.
I wake not just to light and sky,
I wake to ask the deeper “Why?”
I carry dreams in careful grace,
I carry hope for every place.
To dream is to be undone and remade.
To follow the dream is to return.
And I, child of dream-shapers,
return each night to the altar.
There, I meet them—
the grandmother with house-shaped prayers,
the grandfather whose voice echoes in thunder,
The unborn ones sketching new worlds in the mist.
And I rise—
not from sleep, but from memory,
not alone, but anointed,
bearing dreams like offerings for a world
waiting to wake.
