Life Through Four Strings

Laughing, crying, raucous or sober, I think of songs
A lot of them.
I embark upon how true they are when they fit into the empty spaces,
The incompleteness called life.

These songs are not written for me.
Neither will they be played when I am alive or dead.
They will be as ambiguous as the simplest of thoughts
And as convoluted as the superficial tears on the side of a cold glass!

My thoughts and I do not synchronise,
No wonder why I pen down such confusion.
But in my desperate attempts too, plays the song.
The song which will be no other person's to take away from me.

I know that I am low.
The sun does go out when the night arrives
And then even the flower cannot make me smile.
But then I hear the song again.

And then when I've drunk to my fill on the melody,
I smile and try to be what I was meant to.
I try to do what I was meant to
I try to get what I was meant to.
And I play the song.
The song called my life.