• the_indian_akhil 22w


    Call it a Metaphor or Irony
    But the truth is, the writer is dead
    One who used to make us all laugh,
    Who used to make us believe the impossible,
    That writer is now dead.

    What hurts the most
    Isn’t his death,
    It’s that nobody is grieving for the writer.

    Making a way in those wild, whistling winds
    Writer always used to find the best of the emotions in the worst of the places
    Be it an accident, heart break, love, betrayal,
    Even death,
    And that’s why people believed in the writer,
    was the only one who could offer them a better insight in this world,
    but it can’t be a reality anymore,
    the writer is now dead.

    Interwoven cords of thoughts,
    Are now out of tune
    No melody of emotions can come out of them anymore,
    The violin of pain,
    The piano of love,
    The guitar of freedom,
    The drums of heartbreak,
    They can no longer play the verse,
    Verse, the writer wrote,
    Verse can never be played again,
    Writer in now dead.

    Mere thought killed the writer,
    A glimpse of the lover killed the writer,
    Criticism didn’t kill the writer,
    Love did,
    A zero to infinite love did,
    Writer is murdered,
    Writer is dead.

    Bounded the writer,
    The world with strings of words
    Not all kind,
    Not all curse,
    Writer was making his own world,
    We were his followers.

    Capable, practically inescapable,
    our fate it rests,
    Rests I say,
    writer is no longer unaccountable,
    Thank GOD Almighty
    we are FREE at last,
    the writer is now dead.