Working Wonders Poem by Nikhil Parekh

The exuberantly rustling whirlpools of breeze; worked stupendously miraculous wonders for the drearily morose and lugubriously fretful tree,

The torrentially tumbling blankets of ecstatic rain; worked unbelievably miraculous wonders for the hoarsely traumatized landscapes of aridly sweltering land,

The bountiful ocean of resplendent scent emanating from the scarlet rose; worked unfathomably miraculous wonders for the remorsefully forlorn atmosphere,

The meticulously synchronized tick-tocking of the timeless clock; worked irrevocably miraculous wonders for the invidiously sluggish and laggardly lazing,

The ferociously blazing rays of the Omnipotent Sun; worked unprecedentedly miraculous wonders for the disgustingly rotting and perniciously sinister graveyard,

The rhythmical jingling of the innocuously shimmering bells; worked astonishingly miraculous wonders for the indefatigably wailing and disconcertingly skittish
child,

The melodiously everlasting sounds of the royally crested nightingale; worked gloriously miraculously wonders for the manipulatively besieged and bizarrely
monotonous corporate buffoon,

The entrenchment of celestially immaculate peace; worked timelessly miraculous wonders for the irrefutably pious and unrelentingly meditating saint,

The compassionate arms of perpetually amiable friendship; worked spell bindingly miraculous wonders for all those torturously orphaned from the very first
cry of vivacious birth,

The dexterously crafted canes of poignant red and nimble white; worked incomprehensibly miraculous wonders for the blind men crossing the boisterously
rambunctious and foolhardy street,

The ravishingly appetizing meals of salubriously gratifying corn; worked unconquerably miraculous wonders for the traumatically impoverished and
frantically trembling stomach,

The insurmountable titillation of the nubile seductress's footsteps; worked marvelously miraculous wonders for the man deliberately trying to dig his own
corpse and without the most infinitesimal trace of euphoria for vibrant life,
The harmoniously sacrosanct lap of the divinely mother; worked unassailably miraculous wonders for the freshly born and ebulliently frolicking child,

The poignantly profuse body of the fragrant photograph; worked impregnably miraculous wonders for the brutally devastated soul; which had nothing but
Omnisciently gregarious memories to survive on,

The sordidly decaying crevices of the morbidly disappearing gutter; worked sensuously miraculous wonders for mountain of abominably horrific and
menacingly stray parasites,

The dolorously sullen waters of the ghoulishly stagnating pond; worked bountifully miraculous wonders for the vividly enamoring and iridescently blooming lotus flower,

The waves of unflinchingly embellished righteousness; worked triumphantly miraculous wonders for the indiscriminately massacred and salaciously smoldering
conscience,

The infernos of Omnipresently spawning and charismatic breath; worked ubiquitously miraculous wonders for all those innocent and diabolically whipped; at their very last thresholds of abdicating existence,

And the immortally bonding rainbows of unshakable love; worked perpetually miraculous wonders for the salaciously betrayed and a heart throbbing sadly
without its pair of priceless beats