Poetry

1. JUST DOESN’T END
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,

2. 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