Imprisoned in, the rites, of time
Why lost moments, a man, measures!
The substance of, life’s paradigm
Is far beyond, time’s conjectures!
Why tethered, to clocks, and calendars
And the chronicles, of his, past’s remains
A man, is a labor, of lost years
A pilgrim, spent in, history’s veins!
Time ain’t a snake, that molts its skin
But a, constant truth, amid changing lies
O’er yesterdays’ tombs, new todays begin
We baptize some, to memorialize!
“Ring in the new”, so do, they say
Who deify time, in a, year’s megalith
May Day, is good, as a, Good Friday
Time-smith never made, The New Year Myth!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra