They call him that.
With smirks behind the microphone,
with fingers that have never held a bat,
but hold verdicts like daggers,
the failed captain.
The television blaring with breaking news
The screen flashes not truth, but absurdity.
A cricketer blamed for death,
lost lives, in a sea of red and gold
but his name heavy on the headlines,
written in guilt, from those who peddle grief in prime time slots.
They count trophies like truths,
and forget that numbers don’t measure silence,
or that a man still walks back out to face again and again,
to be criticised by strangers who have never so much as held a bat,
but swing opinions like they’ve played their entire lives.
With every victory, he leaps like a deer in bloomtime.
because he feels, and in a world of calculated brands,
feeling is insurrection.
Beneath the mockery dressed as memes,
there is something unshaken.
The fire that refuses to flicker out.
The leader who leads,
even when stripped of the title.
The king who never needed the crown.
His royal path blocked by a tempest of trolls, he shrugs them off
and blames the algorithm.
Oh the failed captain, who failed to become ordinary.
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