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.

Of many twists and turns, a tale he wrote,
As always in the end, a happy ending he sought

But that end never showed up for him,
A writer he was of tales too grim.

His words never failed to match a rhyme,
Yet it seemed he failed from time to time…
A destroyer he was in the tales he wrote,
But in reality, resurrection he sought.

To start all over again somehow,
Re-write a past from then to now,
But then ofcourse the writer knew very well,
His destiny is already written, all he has are random tales to tell.

And so he writes broken tales of doom,
Every midnight some ramblings till dawn will loom,
Few he shares with the world he knows,
The rest he keeps away from everyone- friends and foes.

The hidden tales are now his burden, his pride,
For he sees no purpose to retain them, yet these tales he will always hide
Confusion looms in his world these days,
Life’s Like That, he always says.

And so the writer too grim, as we know him now,
Builds up a new tale – when, where, what , how …
This tale too will end like the rest,
Yet a happy ending he still seeks, and he will try his best….

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