The Quiet Flame

I am not the thunder in the storm,
But I burn where silence keeps me warm.
Not forged in noise or polished light,
I am the whisper that outlasts night.

I carry wounds like ink on skin,
Each scar a place I’ve fought within.
You’ll never see me cry for show—
My tears, like rivers, run below.

They called me fragile, weak, or cold,
But never asked what fire I hold.
A quiet flame, a stubborn will,
A heart that beats when all is still.

I may not roar or break the skies,
But I have truth behind these eyes.
And though the world may dim or fall,
I rise—I rise in spite of all.