There Won’t Be Time To Write Them All

Life’s daily trysts, for an, alchemist
Are beyond, platitudes, scattered, in time
But to, clutch at thoughts, with his, pint-sized fist
Is the, quandary, of his, ‘sin sublime’!

How tilling thru, creeds and, conjectures
Is a pilgrimage, of angst, and pain
For a farmer, who measures, life’s labors
By those, yields of beliefs, he lost, in vain!

In the search, of a thought, to write about
Man, seeks himself, in his, metaphor
Beyond the ken, of his, flair’s ‘redoubt’
Lay an, endless world, left to, explore!

Since we count, our life, in ticks, of clock
That graffiti, crucified, on, time’s wall
Before life, runs out, of, time’s chalk
Don’t laze, o’er, lost moments’, recall
There Won’t, Be Time, To Write, Them All!

© 2020 Vikas Chandra

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