The will that makes us

We bend it. We break it. These wills that make us. Like glass we shatter and like art we build again. Until every crack is a scar and every scar tells a story. Every story a book in a series of events we helped mold like clay on the shores and the banks of these lives we've made. Like statues we start to form. We let time warp us to the makings of who we will be and who it is the world will perceive. With tender hands and strong wills we build and we rise and we rise again. Against every tide against every storm until we are stones worn smooth so that the light of the sun reflects upon us and from this light we build again. Build higher and stronger still until we reach the pinnacle of our stature and we gaze down upon that which we have risen, and in that moment we smile. For we have over come, and in that moment of height our weight is measured not by the stones that built us. But by our nature to reach down. Down from our heights. Down from our kingdoms and into the masses. To grip and hold tight. To the shaking hands of those yet to reach up. To hold fast and rise and rise again. With handful upon handful of our fellow man. For glory is as glory does. But remember. Even a kingdom of gold. Feels empty . . . All alone