The Forge of Struggle
Beneath the weight of an endless sky,
Where dreams falter, and spirits sigh,
I find myself, unbroken, though bent,
A vessel of will, a heart unspent.
Each step feels heavy, the ground unsure,
A labyrinth of pain I must endure.
But in this darkness, a spark takes hold,
A whisper of fire, fierce and bold.
For struggle is not the end, but the start,
The crucible that refines the heart.
It strips away all false veneer,
Leaving raw strength, untamed, sincere.
The climb is steep, the summit far,
Yet in the distance, a guiding star.
Its light may waver, its form unclear,
But it fuels my hope, dispels my fear.
For strength is not in what I gain,
But in standing tall despite the pain.
The will to rise, again, anew,
Is the strength I sought, the strength I grew.
And when this struggle finds its close,
When battles fade, as struggle goes,
I'll carry forward, unbowed, unbound,
A soul once lost, now firmly found.
Each fall becomes a lesson learned,
Each scar a trophy, rightly earned.
The struggle carves, with hands of stone,
A version of me Iβve never known.
In quiet moments, when doubt creeps near,
I hear the echo, steady and clear:
"Not all who stumble will lose their way;
Not all who falter will fall and stay."