The Man Called Anonymous

He is the paradigm shift
Wrote the critics
He is the renaissance
Said the readers


He was weaving mirages with his words
He was scripting history in his words

He wrote and wrote
Scribbling the pages over and over again
Bleeding the spaces every now and every then
Filling the blanks one after the other

He wrote all day
He wrote all night
Sanity is a miss in the gifted

He smeared the pages black and blue
Playing words and denting lives at will

He was a despot and an illusionist


One sunny morning the world woke up to the clear skies
The monsoons were apparently gone
He didn't write a sentence that day
He didn't scribe a word the day after
Or the day after

A week later
The world woke up to the blue decaying remains of a mortal

The world was stunned speechless
He had won the battle of words even in death
The storms had tamed down
The monsoons were finally gone



How could disasters be so beautiful
One would often wonder
Broken marriages, skewed normalcies and damaged lives suffice for an entirety of countless manuscripts
He had once said