The Silent Cartographer

In the realm where shadows softly hum,
And silent whispers through dreams come,
A cartographer maps the soul’s great maze,
Charting the truth in moonlit haze.
 
A predator looms, fierce and wild,
The untamed fear of a guarded child.
Chased through woods of fractured thought,
By shadows of battles never fought.
 
An infant stirs, fragile and new,
The seed of beginnings breaking through.
Its cries echo with tender grace,
The yearning for love’s eternal face.
 
The faceless runner on twisted lanes,
Fleeing a truth that still remains.
Each step a riddle, each turn a plea,
What haunts the dreamer longs to be free.
 
Clothes unravel on a windswept stage,
Threads of persona, time’s living page.
Tattered, adorned, or cast away,
A mirror of change in the light of day.
 
A cross stands silent, solemn, still,
Marking the end of the wandering will.
A symbol of balance, of endings near,
Of life’s quiet song we’re taught to hear.
 
The scholar trembles, the pen won’t glide,
The exam of self we cannot hide.
Questions burn with unyielding might,
What flaws emerge in the dreaming night?
 
Death walks gently through the dreamer’s hall,
Not an end, but a whispered call.
A door swings open, revealing space,
For beginnings carved in life’s embrace.
 
The fall is endless, the earth is shy,
The dreamer tumbles through an open sky.
Fear of losing, letting go,
Of fragile control we dare not show.
 
Machines falter, their gears betray,
Language lost in the dream’s ballet.
A broken voice, a silent plea,
Reflects the doubts we refuse to see.
 
A banquet appears, its feast unending,
Each morsel a truth, the mind is mending.
Knowledge consumed, yet hunger stays,
A yearning for light in shadowed ways.
 
A demon grins with a knowing stare,
The darkness within we seldom dare.
Its voice a mirror, its eyes a flame,
Calling for change through whispered shame.
 
The dreamer’s hands are bound and still,
A symbol of struggle against the will.
To wash them clean is to face the guilt,
Of fragile bridges we’ve never built.
 
A house arises, room by room,
Each chamber a vault of joy or gloom.
The attic holds secrets, the basement cries,
The walls are echoes of hidden skies.
 
A figure falls, a life undone,
A reflection of battles yet to be won.
The blade is heavy, the act severe,
But what is slain is born of fear.
 
A union blossoms in shadowed glow,
Masculine, feminine merge and flow.
Not vows of gold, but of soul’s accord,
The dreamer’s truth, a silent word.
 
A missed departure, a fleeting chance,
The clock hands halt in a frozen dance.
Opportunities pass, decisions weigh,
What lingers behind holds words we slay.
 
Mountains rise, their peaks untamed,
Obstacles fierce, ambitions claimed.
From heights surveyed, the soul takes stock,
Of paths traversed through time’s great clock.
 
The dreamer bares their vulnerable skin,
Truths exposed from deep within.
Naked before the gaze of fate,
The self stands raw, without a gate.
 
Strangers gather, yet seem so near,
Their faces etched in dreamer’s fear.
Each one a shard, a fragment lost,
Of self we face at every cost.
 
A radio hums, a distant call,
The conscious mind speaks through it all.
Static clears, the message true,
Bridges between the old and new.
 
The road extends in golden light,
A journey of purpose, wrong and right.
Which path to take, which turn to dare,
Reflects the choices carried there.
 
The school bell rings, the lessons start,
Life’s blackboard speaks to a restless heart.
Not of numbers or words confined,
But truths unearthed within the mind.
 
Dreams of union, bodies entwined,
Reveal emotions long confined.
Not lust alone, but a merging tide,
Of hidden selves we cannot hide.
 
Teachers appear, with wisdom vast,
Their lessons echo from the past.
Authority guides, but softly bends,
The hand that shapes, the soul it mends.
 
Teeth fall loose, a shattering sound,
A fear of age and frailty found.
Youth’s bright mirror cracks and fades,
Time’s soft erasure through its blades.
 
Trapped in a room, no doors in sight,
Walls of doubt enclose the night.
The soul cries out, its chains unseen,
For freedom’s breath where hope has been.
 
A vehicle spins, its wheel askew,
Life’s control lies out of view.
Who steers the course? Who guides the frame?
The driver’s hand may bear no name.
 
Waters churn or softly gleam,
Reflecting the dreamer’s inner stream.
Calm pools cradle peace anew,
While storms reflect a restless hue.
 
In dreams we wander, lost and found,
In symbols deep, where truths abound.
The map unfolds, its ink runs deep,
Guiding the soul through waking sleep.