When He Wrote…

They write on paper,

With some soul-stirring words,

And desolate sobbing hearts,

About incomplete stories and their shattered parts!

They pen down adventures of past,

And fantasies for tomorrow,

Which have either treasured tons of memories,

Or are yet to explore the best of glories!

They speak of good and worst too,

Quoting the words of merry and delight,

Despite complains of loss and pain,

Ignoring the fact that they won’t get this life to enjoy again!

Yet, no matter what they write and about whom,

There’s someone whose words are forever beyond,

For he’s the one who knows of you and me,

And even the unrevealed depth of the deepest sea!

And when he writes,

The world has to concur and follow,

Of all that he destines and decides,

About smiles, life, deaths and even suicides!

Unlike them, he needs no ink to pen his words,

And no experience to narrate about,

But just few characters and living souls,

Who perpetually aspire to have more joy in their bowls!

And never did he write of past or the moments gone,

Rather of what will come down next morning,

With what shade of dark,

Will the coming night bring in its bark.

And so on this, none can deny him ever,

Even if the fate turns out to be bitter or better!