Nikhil Parekh Poems

What purpose did the grass have to exist; without the astoundingly scintillating sheath of perpetual dewdrops; the mystical rejuvenation that they imparted at the crack of every ethereally ebullient dawn?

What purpose did the sky have to exist; without the crimson conglomerate of handsomely thunderous clouds; the vivacious charisma that they imparted by
indefatigably clashing and culminating into torrential thunderballs of mesmerizing rain?
...

No religion ever teaches you to abhorrently discriminate; pulverize the innocuously innocent to inconspicuous bits of ludicrously frigid ash,

No religion ever teaches you to maliciously murder; parasitically suck blood from the veins of the divinely immaculate; in order to appease the Goddess of blissful existence,
...

Happiness galore; diffusing into waves of tumultuous rhapsody as every instant unveiled into a wholesomely tantalizing minute,
Prosperity galore; as the clouds of freedom perennially showered their endowment of eternally unfading romance; upon the trajectory of this disastrously impoverished planet,
Vivacity galore; as the marvelous festoon of resplendently twinkling stars; danced uninhibitedly in the heart of the voluptuously titillating night,
Prudence galore; as it instilled the most sagaciously pragmatic chapters of existence; in devastatingly hopeless souls,
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Clouds from all across the astronomically colossal Universe; eventually melange with the immortally irrefutable and mesmerizing sky,

Rivers from all across the wonderfully boundless Universe; eventually melange with the immortally irrefutable and tangy ocean,
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The sweat that flowed when you killed; was like the orphaned wings of a parasitic leech; left to devastate on its own in this fathomless Universe,

The sweat that flowed when you lied; was like a lifeless skeleton suspended in non-existent air; pulverizing to inconspicuous ash; at the tiniest insinuation of drifting wind,
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I would hate it if you called me an Indian; tracing my rudiments to an unfathomable myriad of customs and aboriginal traditions,

I would hate it if you called me a Russian; linked various stages of my life to stringent vodka; and exhilarating games of chess,
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The tributaries of horrendous starvation; culminate into despairing sadness,

The tributaries of heinous malice; culminate into perpetual hatred,
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Don't philosophize; just fantasize,
Don't cry; just create,
Don't beg; just bang,
Don't surrender; just smash,
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We might be two different breaths; but will continue to exist as one; rhapsodically relishing each moment of profoundly mystical life,

We might be two different mouths; but will continue to exist as one; singing till the last chord down our throat got exhausted; basking in the glory of the divinely atmosphere,
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When I was philandering through the despicably lugubrious dungeons; the beats of my heart were as remorseful as the miserably sulking snakes; lecherously crippling all my glorious desire to live,

When I was soaring like an angel amidst the vivaciously pungent clouds; the beats of my heart were as ecstatic as torrential thundershowers of silver rain; enshrouding every element of my persona with unfathomable happiness,
...