The cycle of my life,
starting and ending in a circle,
round and round it goes
losing sight of the beginning,
trying to avoid the ending
for fear of leaving nothing behind
to be remembered by.
Our children prove I’ve been, are you?
Why must I follow in someone’s footsteps?
Why can’t mine be the first
impressions in fresh fallen snow?
This is my cycle,
but it is our existence,
our beginning, our ending,
the cycle of my life.