Fragmented Words – (Another Incomplete Poem)

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 !!

Corner Cafe Tales – Incomplete

On a random night, a wandering loner,
Enter a random cafe, by the last lane’s corner!
A writer he was once upon a time,
Off late he had lost his ability to rhyme,
He wanted to write again, perhaps a tale all new,
But for that he required words and had thoughts too few,
He ordered a coffee, black, as he pondered what to write,
Of days gone by, an eventful past, or just the description of a random night!

He choose the latter and wrote a ode to the night,
Of empty roads and a faded moonlight…
His coffee arrived steaming hot,
Ecstacy for him, for ideas he sought,
He tried different ways to create a tale,
Every concept he tried, eventually failed.

His writing was flawed, he knew it by now,
He sought an inspiration, had none, yet continued somehow.
At that moment in that cafe, his glanced turned on the window at the rear,
He visualized a scene, his reality, of his college life’s last year!

There he saw a lad, young at heart, full of life,
Living on his own terms, no worries, no strife,
He stood outside the cafe on a random night of November,
A day before his birthday, as the writer bleakly remembered.

(may be continued…..)