Novel Writer

Writer watches the movement of the moment day by day

Twist and turns, sometimes mundane, he has no say

The tale meanders of its own as if it knows one's way

From the dark alleys to the open fields lit up by Sun's ray.

Thoughts go arid and at times flushed like monsoon

Tidal like waves, stilled in silence, all in a day, a boon

That one could write, seeped in thoughts, words worth

Of the daily stuff, of events that the globe bring forth.

Whose verdict it is, the readers or the writer

Does it matter to the writer, who moves on, further

Right to write is all that matters, therein lies the benediction

Another day has gone by, does he look back in satisfaction?