Life = Death - volume 10 - Poems on Life , Death by Nikhil Parekh - HTML preview

8. MY POETRY

Nothing above it; not even an infinitesimal iota towering above its majestically untainted and gloriously unhindered swirl,

Nothing below it; not even a mercurial iota lurking beneath its fantastically pristine and sensuously enthralling identity,

Nothing antagonistic to it; not even an inconspicuous shade contradicting its bountifully emollient and triumphantly benign ramifications,

Nothing to the right of it; not even a transient degree swerving from its effulgently mellifluous and timelessly ecstatic shadow,

Nothing to the left of it; not even an ethereal millimeter away from its victoriously beautiful and interminably poignant cascade,

Nothing overlapping it; not even the most invisible whisker trying to obscure its ebulliently virile and royally unassailable luminescence,

Nothing sidelining it; not even the most obfuscated ingredient of royalty attempting to devour its altruistically brilliant and impregnably sparkling integrity,

Nothing overlooking it; not even an ephemeral molecule of indifference to its fervently undefeated and unconquerably ubiquitous caress,

Nothing victimizing it; not even an invisible ingredient of venomous commercialism trying to ensnare its uninhibitedly magical and voluptuously fecund wings,

Nothing beyond it; not even a diminutive speck of tantalizing mirage; trying to seductively lure beyond its beautifully sculptured and unbelievably enamoring contours,

Nothing surrounding it; not even an evanescent mist of mouth watering temptation encapsulating its perennially fructifying and compassionately befriending scepter,

Nothing blocking it; not even an unmentionably fugitive obstruction to its timelessly unfettered and astoundingly inimitable fragrance,

Nothing hypnotizing it; not even an obliterated spell of drudged witchcraft trying to control its insuperably magnificent and fathomlessly spotless soul,

Nothing empowering it; not even the tiniest trace of the tyrannically robotic devil trying to maliciously overwhelm its undyingly winning and divinely infallible incantation,

Nothing questioning it; not even a single moment of interrogation to its unshakably irreproachable and eternally burgeoning seed,

Nothing dictating it; not even an infidel insinuation of cold-blooded doggedness against its wondrously omnipotent and insatiably passionate heartbeats,

Nothing burying it; not even a minuscule thread of manipulation trying to brutally asphyxiate its eternally ravishing and universally blissful appeal,

Nothing discarding it; not even a transitory beacon of oblivion viciously

trying to gobble its everlastingly sacrosanct and endlessly intrepid odysseys,

As whatever I had; dreamt or ever possessed; was solely and perpetually in it; was solely and perpetually for it; was solely and perpetually about it; was infact solely and perpetually “IT” itself; and this “IT” would forever and ever and ever mean

my “Poetry”.