The Dreamer's Pen

I stand in a small, dimly lit room, surrounded by mismatched chairs and the smell of coffee and incense.The gentle rhythm of a bongo drum hums in the background. I’m dressed in all black, the fabric heavy against my skin, but I feel light, as if the beat is carrying me forward. It’s my turn to speak.

I step into the center, closing my eyes for a moment as I let the steady pulse of the drum fill me. I take a deep breath, then I open my eyes and share the words I’ve carried with me:

“Trust is not built in loud moments,
Nor in promises made in haste.
It is woven slowly, silently,
In the space between each word, each breath,
Where the heart listens,
And time finds its way.

It is a quiet thing, fragile,
Like morning mist on a cool spring day,
Weaving through the spaces we’ve created,
Dancing softly in the gaps,
Until the light finds its way again.

The threads may fray,
The pattern may break,
But with each pause,
Each moment of patience,
We rebuild,
We learn how to trust again.”

The room falls quiet, the silence hanging between us like a shared breath. I can feel the weight of their gaze, and yet, the rhythm of the bongo is still there, steady and reassuring.

Someone in the circle nods, fingers tapping lightly to the beat, their eyes reflecting the same quiet understanding. The bongo player continues to drum, weaving my words into the music. For a moment, it’s more than poetry. It’s a quiet, living metamorphosis. One I’m a part of, just as much as I’m shaping it.