Time Travel

Pulled from a box, dust in its wake,

a passport, old, a traveler’s dream.

Faded picture, a smile I’d make,

feels like a ghost in a distant scheme.

The stamp, once bright, whispers of lands,

where dreams unfurled beneath foreign skies.

Now, here I stand, unsteady hands,

a ticket to worlds I can’t realize.

Unwanted thoughts creep in like fog,

where has the wanderlust gone to hide?

These pages filled with dreams, now a slog,

buried deep, while the future bides.