It begins with a spark, barely audible,
a whisper beneath the clutter.
Not a thunderclap or trumpet\'s call,
but the slow inhale before leaping.
Will is the hand that rises unbidden,
the spine that refuses to bow.
It is the choice made in silence,
when no witnesses are watching.
Its power is not granted but learned,
shaped by scraped knees and long nights.
A chorus sung between doubt and desire,
a heartbeat relentless against the tide.
Will cannot be borrowed or gifted—
it is carved, it is tended.
It is the moment a foot steps forward,
knowing solid ground might falter.
Call it stubbornness or courage,
grit or grace—it is all of them.
The invisible engine of the human spirit,
a seed blooming in the darkest soil.
Will is never loud, but undeniable.
It is not easy, but it is ours.
In its quiet defiance, it becomes love,
forging possibility out of shadow.