Embers

In the quiet folds of broken skies,
where silver hopes and shadows rise,
a trembling heart still dares to beat—
a stubborn drum with aching feet.

The wind may tear, the night may jeer,
but deeper grows the root of fear,
and deeper still, beneath the pain,
a stubborn seed will drink the rain.

Not every flame was made to roar;
some burn unseen behind the door,
a whisper tucked within the chest—
an ember fighting for its rest.

And though the storms may scream and sear,
and though the soul may crack with fear,
the ember hums its silent song:
"I am not gone. I am not gone."