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Nikhil Parekh

Rookie - 488 Points (27/08/1977 / Dehradun, India)

everytime my heart palpitated for existence


Some relentlessly wiped the dust of it; just in order to relieve the
unsurpassable restlessness that irksomely leaked from each pore of
their; frenetically trembling fingers,

Some unceasingly wiped the dust of it; just in order to give each day
of theirs a meaningfully pragmatic start; judiciously adhering to
every conceivable thumb rule of cleanliness embossed in the scientific
textbooks,

Some thoroughly wiped the dust of it; just in order to grant their
otherwise haplessly beleaguered demeanors; that supreme hilt of
sparkling achievement,

Some intransigently wiped the dust of it; just in order to be that
very first infallible pioneering leaf; in the whole new chapter of
bountifully civilized cleanliness,

Some fanatically wiped the dust of it; just in order to sight even the
most infinitesimal curve of their facial contours; in its now
wholesomely brand-new transparently scintillating glass,

Some painstakingly wiped the dust of it; just in order to keep even
the faintest shadows of their existence pollution free; inhale an air
more purer than what could be found in rhapsodically majestic
paradise,

Some maniacally wiped the dust of it; just in order to wonderfully
mollify their everyday habitual rages of exonerating every speck of
grime; to beyond the realms of nothingness,

Some listlessly wiped the dust of it; just in order to expend their
latently thwarted energies into something alien; whilst profoundly
concentrating upon the cherished targets of their lives,

Some inexhaustibly wiped the dust of it; just in order to grant it the
highest honor of their otherwise impoverished lives; seeking refuge in
its invincibly peaceful contours—when the rapacious balderdash of the
planet became too devilish to bear,

Some iteratively wiped the dust of it; just in order to tickle the
otherwise robotically estranged hair of their nostrils; with the
unabashedly merry-making particles that bellowed in a jiffy inside,

Some snobbishly wiped the dust of it; just in order to grant
themselves a feeling of fecklessly frigid superiority; that its
destiny of whether to be clean or not; entirely depended upon the
swish of their nonchalant thumbs,

Some laboriously wiped the dust of it; just in order to holistically
rejuvenate blood in their otherwise haplessly paralyzed fingers; which
had gotten so ruthlessly numb in the freezing winter morning,

Some irately wiped the dust of it; just in order to get rid of their
inexplicably unwonted irritation; as they disgustingly snapped at
every conceivable thing in vicinity since the first crack of dawn,

Some unstoppably wiped the dust of it; just in order to ease those
endlessly painstakingly hours that lay inevitably in store; and that
had to be conquered to taste the fruits of blissful success,

Some lackadaisically wiped the dust of it; just in order to merely
caress their bewitchingly dreaming fingers; with a tiny ocean of
glimmering pristine silk,

Some devoutly wiped the dust of it; just in order to regroup the
miserably hackneyed lines of their shattered destiny; in its myriad
labyrinths of mystical sacredness,

Some despairingly wiped the dust of it; just in order to frantically
search for those stolen moments of happiness; which could be slyly
lurking in the recesses of infinite oblivion behind,

Some dedicatedly wiped the dust of it; just in order to timelessly
worship the image behind; from which eternally radiated every single
pulse; every single color of their impoverished lives,

Whilst I never ever cleaned it; neither did I ever see the frame in
which it was kept; yet immortally felt the photo of my God in its most
royally unassailable form; everytime my heart palpitated for
existence; everytime my heart throbbed for symbiotic life. 

Submitted: Sunday, August 17, 2014

Topic(s): poetry


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