Every single day and all the while;
Hurriedly scribbled paragraphs and sketches
Just as we progress from mile to mile.
Aided by fancy wooden bookmarks,
We keep turning back to pages from the past -
The colours – bright, vibrant, sometimes morbid
Suck us into the mystic spells they cast.
Events – those recorded in great detail,
Trigger off a ‘rainbow’ of emotion;
Even seemingly harmless, little acts
Are equipped to cause quite a commotion.
The chapters - perhaps repetitive, monotonous…
Are then revived by a bolt from the blue.
And old scenes from a long forgotten script
Replay themselves again - ‘tis deja vous!
Some of us wait patiently and watch –
Hoping for divine intervention…
Whilst the rest, we unfold our own stories;
Driven by ambition and intention.
The pages-full-of-laughter are multi-coloured,
And love is almost always a loving red;
But of course there’s no hard-and-fast convention
Feel free to use your own shades instead!
As the exuberance of youth wears thin,
With pen-in-hand, we're no longer as steady;
And the ink runs dry whilst the pages revolt,
Regardless of whether or not you’re ready.
Who 'decides' the “end” could be a matter of discussion –
Opinions may cross swords in a debate.
Do us mere mortals get to write our final chapters?
Or do the mighty 'Hands of God' pen down our fate?
Some books tell tales of ‘birds of promise’ -
Abruptly, unfairly shot down in flight!
But most stories have ingredients in proportions -
A fizzy cocktail of Sorrow and Delight.
Clockwork - soon, an epilogue is in place.
On the covers – a number assigned and engraved.
An alignment is then made - to a rack on a shelf
Based on what parameters? How you’ve behaved?
The “dead you knew” could perhaps recommend you!
You could throw in a few good deeds as well;
You’re book? Well, it’s either in the “Heaven” section
Or in the crowded space below, marked “Hell”!
