Life's Baggage

In the age where whispers turn to roars,
and time has lost its chains,
she bears the scars,
from life's relentless campaigns.

She walks through the streets she's made,
under skies our ancestors couldn't tame,
with wounds that won't heal,
in a world that won't reveal
its secrets or its aim.

Life's baggage weighs heavy on her back,
like an unwanted souvenir from a war in which she can't attack,
each heartbeat echoing the past,
a mournful, rhythmic hack.

The ghosts of yesterday, they cling and hold,
in this age of stories untold,
yet in the darkness, there's a spark,
a fleeting hope that leaves its mark.

For through the pain, we find our strength,
in every scar, a length of wisdom gained,
we stand on mountains of despair,
and breathe the air that's laced with fear.

In this modern world we roam,
with life's baggage as our home,
we forge ahead, each step a test,
bound by shackles we possess.

But in the end, it's not the weight,
but how we bear it that makes us great,
our trauma shaping who we are,
like a potter's touch on clay.

So let us carry on this dance,
with life's cruel, heavy romance,
for in the end, we'll find our grace,
in every step, a trace of life's embrace.