There once was a boy
with wonder in his bones,
soft little palms,
and a name never known—
not spoken with love,
nor held in the air—
just drifting through silence,
unseen, unaware.
The child didn’t vanish—
he learned how to hide.
He buried his spirit
somewhere deep inside.
He sang into silence,
so no one would know
that he walked without crying
through cold winds that blow.
And so came the Guardian—
not born out of might,
but forged out of fear
in the absence of light.
He stood like a shadow,
a sentinel still,
not asking for thanks—
only bending his will.
He built a quiet world,
where danger might rise.
He braced for the heartbreak,
learned silence replies.
He learned how to flinch
before words could land,
to spot every wound
before it was planned.
He wrapped up his pain
in layers unseen,
turned sorrow to insight
and called it routine.
He smoked when he felt numb,
watched hours drift by,
told himself “It’s okay”—
though he knew it’s a lie.
For armor can guard,
but it cannot grow.
It cannot feel love,
only weather the blow.
He was built not to dream,
nor to live, nor to hold—
but to shield the soft heart
from a world harsh and cold.
But the years moved along—
and the boy stirred within,
pressed his hand to the ribs
and whispered through skin:
“Is it safe yet?” he asked,
his voice faint and low.
The Guardian paused—
unsure how to let go.
“I don’t want protection.
I just want to be held.
I want to stop hiding,
to feel, to be well.”
And the Guardian answered,
his voice soft with pain:
“Not yet. Not yet.”
He repeated again.
But the words broke his silence—
he felt them ring true.
He had saved the young boy…
but locked his soul too.
And all he endured—
every scar, every fight,
now felt like a prison
that blocked out the light.
He wept not from failing,
but from being the wall—
from bearing the burden
that now must fall.
He was not the enemy.
He was the stay.
The quiet protector
who never walked away.
He carried the silence,
absorbed every blow,
while the boy learned to breathe
and to quietly grow.
But now, the world softens.
The war starts to cease.
And the Guardian stands
with no use for peace.
His armor, once noble,
now hangs like a weight—
a testament carved
by sorrow and fate.
He doesn’t regret it.
But he doesn’t know how
to stop being the shield
and just be here now.
And inside the silence,
the child still waits,
watching the doors,
watching the gates.
Hoping one day,
when the storms all subside,
he'll come to the Guardian,
stand by his side,
look in his eyes
with love—soft and true—
and say:
“You didn’t fail me.
You carried me through.
But now, it’s my turn.
I’ll take the next breath.
You’ve guarded enough—
you can rest.”
And maybe—
for the first time since all this began—
they dream not of safety…
but of sunlight again.