Keeper of the Hidden Fire
From the night’s woven garden
The Raccoon listens—
a small heart carrying a vast sky.
Stars cling to his fur like stories
that refused to fade.
He wears the old mask.
not to deceive,
but to remember who we are
when names fall away.
Between leaf and shadow
He learns the language of crossings.
His paws glow with patient symbols.
marks of making-do,
of finding medicine in what was broken.
Color hums around him—
every petal a witness,
Every spark a vow.
Raccoon laughs softly at fear.
turns locks with kindness,
opens doors that shame once guarded.
He teaches the sacred art of survival:
bend, adapt, become.
When the cosmos leans close,
He gathers fragments—
lost songs, misplaced courage—
and tucks them back into the body
where they belong.
If he stands before you,
Do not rush.
Breathe.
He is asking whether you will trust
the wild intelligence within,
the hidden fire that knows
How to make a life from night.
Keeper of the Hidden Fire
From the night’s woven garden
The Raccoon listens—
a small heart carrying a vast sky.
Stars cling to his fur like stories
that refused to fade.
He wears the old mask.
not to deceive,
but to remember who we are
when names fall away.
Between leaf and shadow
He learns the language of crossings.
His paws glow with patient symbols.
marks of making-do,
of finding medicine in what was broken.
Color hums around him—
every petal a witness,
Every spark a vow.
Raccoon laughs softly at fear.
turns locks with kindness,
opens doors that shame once guarded.
He teaches the sacred art of survival:
bend, adapt, become.
When the cosmos leans close,
He gathers fragments—
lost songs, misplaced courage—
and tucks them back into the body
where they belong.
If he stands before you,
Do not rush.
Breathe.
He is asking whether you will trust
the wild intelligence within,
the hidden fire that knows
How to make a life from night.
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