The world remembers tales
Of blessed starts and tragic ends.
But ask them who lived those stories,
If they want to keep up with the trends.
The protagonists would want to rewrite,
The story that is sold as theirs.
A story that goes on and on,
The end? Who cares?
They would write pages and pages,
The tale shall not have an end, only a start.
The story must live on,
Till death does them apart.
Wouldn't that be a tale to remember?
What would it feel like to witness such a scene?
Alas, all tales have to end,
The story trapped somewhere in between.
Like perhaps chapters,
Maybe even the commas and semicolons,
The final full stop is what matters,
Where the characters bid adieu, their hearts forever forlorn.
Does it make sense? Maybe it does.
Or may be not, I am not sure.
What kind of an end a story deserves,
If at all, it should meet an end premature.
Time shall teach the poet,
How to write prose and contemplate ends.
Happy or sad, he would have to ponder,
The kind of end of his preference.
( P.S:
I think I have said this earlier,
I will say it again, since, critics I have none.
An end is an end,
There never was a happy one.)
