In the mirror, of the, mist of fall
I see, lost years, thru splintered eyes
The clock, and calendar, on my wall
Make me, the martyr, of time’s lies!

I glance thru, yesterdays’, obituaries
On façades, of mornings’, newspapers
I stand, as the tomb, of my miseries
Where the past, and present’s, limit blurs!

Beyond the, furrows on, my face
Dazed expressions, which make, me age
In a world, stricken with, a mortal race
I too am, on death’s, pilgrimage!

I am, the lost kite, of that boy
Who let me go, of his, blasé hold
To fall, from grace, to time’s, ‘prudent ploy’
Lo and behold! Enigma Of My Growing Old!

© 2019 Vikas Chandra