The Writer in the Book

By Astha

What happens to the story

If the writer grows too tired to write?

Will there be colours left to linger,

Or will it fade to black and white?

Can we truly stop the slipping sand,

Even if we clutch our fists tight?

The flame gives both warmth and burns 

Should we fear or find delight?

What is done in love, with love 

Can that ever be justified?

In every form of art, perhaps,

Violence has been glorified.

A poet’s licence embraces all,

Their words may be exaggerated, never obliged.

Dear Commander, when two souls unite,

The heartbeats are amplified.

What I see when I look in the mirror is,

“Damn, we look good,” that can’t be denied.

Like a letter sealed with a lipstick mark,

Wrapped in blue,entirely customised.

Opened with kisses,read in bed,

With a mermaid lying by your side.

To whom he makes love like a beast,

Yet a true gentleman outside.

If flaws are secret perfections,

We can let the pain slide.

So…

The story immortalises itself,

With the supply of endless ink.

After all, can an ocean be emptied,

No matter how much from it you drink?

The pen moves,the page turns 

For the writer is within the book.

By Astha