To charade is my religion;
handed over to me by my
heart’s experience.

We make pilgrimages
Not journeys.
Best to travel light,
Least you know you’ll be back same.

Leave no moments,
have no memories.
Time wastes at the expense
Of our heart’s wants.

Yet, this pilgrimage
began on a journey unplanned.
Unscheduled routines
consumes the itinerary.

The usual becomes
the unusual,
The norm is vintage.
This journey, unclassifiable.

For days like these,
we were made to conform
but in moments of these days,
memories should be made.

Let the conformists riot,
they are only but
conformists,
telling tales of repeated pilgrimages.

My memories I assemble,
I’ll have this moment .

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