Not the Quiet

Not the quiet and not the calm at dawn: he comes alive when the thunder gets loud. Doubt tried to call and he hung low. He drew dreams on every surface and turned them into moves with purpose, flying past the ceiling. Every scar became a feeling worth more than gold, and he built while the world slept. Every time the ground cracks, he climbs, with voltage running through his spine. They told him to wait and not rush it; he refused to trust that. Every wall, bruise and dark hour made him tough, salt on his skin like armour. He turns weight into wings, built for the moments when the walls close in.