To meet that day, that self, that place
I brace, myself for, time’s deceit
Why a, vagabond strays, on a, timeless chase
In the maze, of mind, with myths replete!
Is it providence, or a, pilgrim’s plight
Who holds, in awe, enigma of return
And wakes, in dream, on a, mystic night
In wait, for a trip, to the, same sojourn!
Amidst endless mob, of the same, spent souls
I am, no more than, one of those
Who lust, for lost time; rake over, old coals
Whose presents, can’t escape, their pasts’ shadows!
Mind’s fiction, or soul’s invention!
Or means, to redeem, lost rendezvous
A mystique, with no, dimension
That Fickle Train To Déjà Vu!
© 2019 Vikas Chandra