Seated in the library, a writer tried to write,
Trying to define his existence, with a struggling attempt to set things right,
He tried to rectify the errors of his past,
Though he was short of time, in the few moments that will last!
He tried to write a tale too long,
Lost track in-between, wrote it all wrong…
He had new beginnings, he faced the same end,
A broken tale with nothing to mend
Fragments many, of a life gone by,
Turned to fiction, truth woven in a thread called lie
Of a wanderer at heart, that he always was,
Wandering on random ways, left with no purpose!
With memories left to be forgotten someday,
As he walked on, on his broken way.
Many twists and turns were still stored in fate,
It seemed to him he was life’s favourite bait!
Back to the question, of what to write,
The writer pondered a lot, but nothing seemed right!
His words were empty, a tale with no track,
The end was an irony, a meaningful conclusion it lacked!
He wrote of days long gone…
Of memories many, remembered by none…
Of friends he met, and foes he made,
Tattered glimpses of a past, that will soon fade !
Of long talks…over matters non-trivial…
Of excuses to meet for workings unreal..
Of a rose not given…of a sentence unsaid…
Of a call unconnected…of a letter unread…
And so the tale, went on and on,
Of random moments turning to memories to be retold later in some song!
Of love, or what he believed love was,
A random verse, to explain his loss,
Of random twists in tale, to set things wrong,
Indeed, his tale was turning too long !
He faced highs, he faced lows,
A murky life full of emotional blows
To give him support was his favourite quote,
Life’s Like That… he always wrote !!