The Herbarium of My Life

Life is a cycle, a relentless train
Of tiny triumphs and of massive losses.
Who wrote this script of sorrow and of pain?
And who decides what paths our spirit crosses?
But every day that passes by, you keep,
Like pressing fallen leaves inside a book,
A quiet record of the scars so deep,
On all your battles, everywhere you look.
Your entire life has now been softly cast
Inside a dusty, worn-out photo album.
Each night you lazily review the past,
But why it went this way remains a phantom.
You seek the meaning, but it can't be found,
As shadows fall and stars begin to gleam.
And in this fading house, there is no sound,
The fading voices quiet like a dream.
Touching the dried-up leaves upon the page,
You whisper with a gentle, heavy sigh:
"So that is all that's left of every stage...
Wait, what is this that caught my weary eye?"
Oh Lord... a little ladybug...
My dear,
How did you ever end up here?