Sweat drops

Like fresh dews of the dawn

Fell on the toe of the anonymous man

Whose sweat had a metallic stench on the canvas of his rusted skin color.

He had drooping eyes

That waited for Death.

Restless lives, incomplete stomach, the last puff of the orange flaming bidi.

Endless friction of his mind and body, of his fate and desires.

He knew nothing about Love.

He knew nothing about sinless sleep.

He had entered the damned theater in the darkness.

He exhibited his animalistic vigor; he had azure landscapes flashing in front of his closed eyes.

He celebrated his sole existence, with a bottle of local, in a room that had green velvets in corners.

He sighed and moaned, that was unheard by people.

He knew nothing about Marriage.

He knew nothing about being a father.

But he had a passion.

Apart from his stereotypical routine, he loved being Anonymous.

At night,

When everyone is smeared with fatigue

He steps out,

Sometimes as a woman,

Sometimes as a college boy,

Or a divorced guy, a psychopath who raped the wall and killed the windows,

Anything or nothing

That he fancied for that very night.

He created stories within him,

He lived every iota of his fancies.

And as the dawn kissed the horizons,

He came to his self, a man with a name, a middle class living, an occupation and a loner’s life equal to death.


He has something to look forward,

He waits for the whole day,

He waits for that gorgeous night that has the grandeur

Of being,


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