Echoes in Quiet Corners

Madness
in the quiet corners
of my skin,
a current of heat
beneath words,
beneath breath.

It winds
around me
like a labyrinth:
walls soft,
shadowed,
doors whisper
echoes.

Still,
I do not follow.

I gather
myself
from the noise,
from storms
brushing
against my name,
and cradle
the ember
that beats within me.

It does not cry,
it does not beg;
it glows,
patient fire,
untouched
by their games.

And in the hush,
after the tremor fades,
I drift
into reverie,
tracing
the shape of myself
when the world
grows loud.

Not the storm,
not the echo,
not the madness

but the flame
that remembers
how to burn.