Will with the Tell, Words from a Spell

 There are words that breathe,

not merely spoken but woven.
They rise like smoke from a hidden fire,
curling into the air,
binding the listener to a silence deeper than thought.

Words from a spell—
not of witchcraft,
but of truthcraft.
They do not command,
they remind.
They do not break,
they bind together.

Every syllable is a stone on the path,
every pause a lantern in the dark.
Some walk past them,
feet too loud to hear the whisper.
But those who listen—
they find the hidden door,
the key that fits the lock of the heart.

I have gathered these words,
shaped by struggle,
carved by wonder,
and tempered in time.
They are not mine alone.
They belong to the rivers,
the dust,
the stories carried in the skin of generations.

And so I speak,
with no crown,
with no throne,
only with the breath that was given—
words from a spell.

You, the listener,
become the keeper.
You, the dreamer,
become the flame.

This is my tale,
and I end it well—
for I am Will,
with the tell.