Season of actions is over.
Segments of story are now penned.
The plot which was supposed to be clever
is now hard to even comprehend
even for the writer.
An ending which was thought of from the start,
now does not make sense,
as if the story took over in itself
like it was the writer and the writer had to pretend.
Next chapter is now unclear,
and so is the story’s moral.
Maybe this is what births fear.
Strangely unfair and terrible
that the thing which cripples,
in no ways can be controlled.
Time and again it comes back as ripples
and writes the story to be told.