Just Doesn't End Poem by Nikhil Parekh

The job of the sensuously virile clouds perhaps ended; at showering torrential downpours of magically glistening rain; upon the trajectory of this fathomlessly enchanting earth,

The job of the beautifully bountiful lotus perhaps ended; at timelessly perpetuating the miserably rotting fabric of earth; with unbelievably insuperable scent,

The job of the vivaciously poignant ocean perhaps ended; at perpetually culminating into quintessentially frosty salt; with every swirling wave that rose high and handsome towards the royal sky,

The job of the everpervadingly fructifying seed perhaps ended; at spawning into an exuberant plant; as the clock of indispensable time gradually unveiled by and by,

The job of the voluptuously tantalizing grass blades perhaps ended; at diffusing into pristinely delightful dew every midnight; as the Omnipotent Moon crept up in impeccably wonderful sky,

The job of the rambunctiously effervescent bumble bee perhaps ended; at rendering unsurpassable tons of golden honey; in its parsimoniously catacombed hive,

The job of the eclectically talented artist perhaps ended; at capturing the panoramically unconquerable beauty of this priceless planet; with his articulately dancing paintbrush and upon the limitlessly barren canvas of his imagination,

The job of the Omnipresently blistering Sun perhaps ended; at majestically
inundating even the most infinitesimal arena of this boundless planet;
with unshakably optimistic light,

The job of the effulgently blossoming leaves perhaps ended; at triumphantly
permeating the carpet of the squalidly dolorous atmosphere; with rhapsodically untainted wind,

The job of jubilantly exotic fantasy perhaps ended; at enshrouding every pore of the monotonously devastated skin; with sensations of endlessly untamed delight,

The job of the gloriously intimate apogee perhaps ended; at towering into
the ultimate scepter of aristocratically unflinching courage and eternal victory,

The job of the inscrutably inexhaustible forests perhaps ended; at radiating into an unfathomably unlimited valley of profound mysticism; as each day unfurled
into charismatically surreal night,

The job of the eternally iridescent waterfall perhaps ended; at heavenly revitalizing even the most drearily subjugated of venom and dirt; that came in the course of its magically gurgling cascade,

The job of the intricately blessed veins perhaps ended; at unceasingly supplying unassailably crimson blood to an infinite pores and part of the; symbiotically breathing form,

The job of the affably twinkling stars perhaps ended; at altruistically granting compassionate beams of enlightenment; in the heart of the mercilessly
blackened night,

The job of the indomitably unfettered truth perhaps ended; at forever beheading the cadaverously corrupted coffins of satanically worthless lies,

The job of the harmoniously unadulterated nostrils perhaps ended; at tirelessly supplying pricelessly ecstatic draughts of life-yielding oxygen; to the penuriously asphyxiating lungs,

The job of the perpetually beating heart perhaps ended; at promulgating the
beats of Immortally unparalleled love; to the farthest quarter of this limitlessly proliferating Universe,

But the job of the Parents just doesn't end at giving birth to the innocuous
infant; just doesn't end even after harnessing it with their very own blood to face the acrimonious world outside; just doesn't end even at equipping it every conceivable comfort on this Universe; just doesn't end even after they veritably died; as they continue to Omnisciently enlighten it from their heavenly abode; far away from the torturous devil and forever towards the path of amiably synergistic righteousness