O small ones with starlit bones,
You come not roaring but rustling—
with fur damp from dew,
eyes vast as the unspoken ache in men’s hearts,
and breath like lullabies learned before language.

I see you,
twilight-stitched and tender-footed,
bearing no answers—only presence,
and that, O god-breathed watchers,
is more than enough.

A crow in a hat made of riddles and bees
once whispered, “Your shame fits just fine on trapeze.”
A laugh isn’t lesser for living in sorrow—
it just packs a bag and says, “Try again tomorrow.”
So juggle your fears, wear a tutu of dread—
the circus is sacred, and you’re up next, kid.

I don’t mind the ghosts.
They’re quiet. Honest. Better company than most living things.
This suite is for those who love with curses,
grieve like it’s an art form,
and never flinch at the truth,
even when it drips.

They rise from soil not as weeds,
but as witnesses—
born of blood, burden, and the brave ones who stayed.
Their names were prayers before they were bones.
And though the roots run tangled,
they still reach for light.

They came not knocking—
but through the smoke, through the spell, through the seam
of a dream too old to remember,
they entered.
Bone-bound, oath-wrought,
each one a whisper with claws.
Not to haunt you—
but to keep you whole.