Poetry

1. TO THE SERVICE OF MANKIND
Just moving your lips up and down doesn’t make any sense; the real art lies in
speaking articulately; profoundly impressing upon your point on your hostile
adversary,
Just shaking your fingers aimlessly in the air doesn’t make any sense; the real art lies
in embossing spell binding pieces of literature; captivating the entire nation with the
unprecedented depth in your words,
Just swishing your legs waywardly in the pools of water doesn’t make any sense; the
real art lies in audaciously marching towards the summit of victory; conquering
invincible peaks with the colossal strength they posses,
Just admiring your reflection spuriously in the transparent mirror doesn’t make any
sense at all; the real art lies in pleasing as many individuals as you can; mesmerize
people around you with your stupendous beauty and seductive charisma,
Just writing books after books sitting in the cloistered interiors of your dwelling
doesn’t make any sense at all; the real art lies in propagating your work to as far and
distant as you can; sharing the essence of your enchanting fantasy with people
who badly needed it,
Just perspiring and appreciating your own golden globules of sweat as they trickled
down doesn’t make any sense at all; the real art lies in slogging onerously under the
mid-day Sun; to enlighten the faces of infinite children who were starving on the
streets without their parents,
Just sketching boundless shapes of abstract imagination on sprawling sheets of
scintillating canvas doesn’t make any sense at all; the real art lies in capturing the
ultimate beauty lingering the cosmos; the lifestyles of our century old ancestors;
with the pungent bristles of the gaudy paint brush,
Just playing incessantly imprisoned within the corridors of the ghastly jail doesn’t
make any sense at all; the real art lies in stepping out in brilliant daylight; letting the
poignant sunshine filter a mystical path across your dainty eyes; frolicking in
glee with the rabbits on the hillside,
Just winking your eye to stimulate your own nerves umpteenth times in a day doesn’t
make any sense at all; the real art lies in fomenting kids afflicted with inexplicable
disease to have a hearty laugh at your batting eyelid,

2. Just growing a garden of roses in your dingy little kitchen; obfuscated in entirety from
the Sun and the world; doesn’t make any sense at all; the real art lies in planting them
at every cranny you tread; to spread their supremely mesmerizing fragrance in every
house on this planet,
Just punching the sandbag suspended tamely from the ceiling doesn’t make any sense
at all; the real art lies in battling the evil circumventing this earth; sucking blood from
innocent individuals like an venomous parasite,
Just fantasizing wildly about beauty all day doesn’t make any sense at all; the real art
lies in exploring all tantalizing form created by God on this globe; further assisting his
cause in continuing the chapter of existence,
Just sleeping for unsurpassable hours on the princely couch doesn’t make any sense
at all; the real art lies in sharing it with those who hadn't a roof to sequester their
scalps; ensuring that they eventually got a bit of restful slumber,
Just remembering your childhood brooding over your present in utter regret doesn’t
make any sense at all; the real art lies in walking on the sea shores again like a child;
let the mighty waves of the ocean caress you; make you feel as if you were just born,
Just letting blood rampantly flow in your veins; swelling in gallons every day as you
gobbled food like a glutton; doesn’t make any sense at all; the real art lies in
engendering it to flow for the person you revered; disseminating it philanthropically
to all those who were wounded; who died every second in absence of it,
Just screaming at the top of your lungs standing tall and domineering at the tip of the
perilously deep mountain doesn’t make any sense at all; the real art lies in shouting
for deprived women; blatantly reveal the atrocities being committed on them; the way
the weaker sex was brutally assaulted,
Just swimming under the stars; splashing water lavishly around before ultimately
sipping it doesn’t make any sense at all; the real art lies in sprinkling each droplet you
possessed upon the land and people struck by savage drought,
Just throbbing your heart violently in perception of the person you cared doesn’t
make any sense at all; the real art lies in embracing the same in times of supreme
exultation as well as morbid distress,
And just breathing every hour for times immemorial doesn’t make any sense; the real
art lies in deriving the maximum pleasure out of this life; living every instant for the
person you loved; dedicating your life to the service of mankind.