Nikhil Parekh - Indian Poet


I used to cut thick strands of the abysmally long rope; bifurcating it into commensurate halves, 


Then use the same in hoisting out bulky loads from the sequestered well; fetch


water from the river standing on top of the lanky mountain.


 


I used it to adroitly scrape blotches of disdainful mud adhering to my shoe; evacuate the debris from inside the soles, 


So when I wore my disheveled footwear the next time out; it appeared profoundly scintillating under the fiery body of Sun.


 


I used it to scrupulously tear pieces of gaudy cloth into thin strips; vibrantly  displaying a host of vivid colors, 


Then stuck them into my straw brimmed hat; wore a strap of snake leather; to


resemble the perfect cowboy.


 


I used to ruthlessly rip apart through pudgy chunks of plush upholstery; brutally extricating the sponge out, 


In my frantic search for finding the missing jewels; apprehending the scores of nefarious criminals.


 


I used it to poke my beloved in the soft cartilage of her ribs; hovering it in the vicinity of her ear like a petulant mosquito, 


Only to hear her anguished rebuking; the deliberately cold meals she served me for nocturnal supper.


 


I used it to tenaciously dig the fresh mounds of mud; making a plethora of inconspicuous holes in proximity of the plants, 


Facilitating their accelerated growth; providing them with augmented space 


to breathe.


 


I used it to spread the golden smear of butter on my morning bread; coherently


applying jam to my succulent fruit, 


Thereafter Relishing my meal immensely; with sporadic beams of light falling


in shimmering pools on my dreary eyes.


 


I used it to frivolously prick inflated balloons; inserting it with meticulous


precision in their protuberant body, 


Tremendously enjoyed the thunderous bang; the monstrous reverberations that


besieged the atmosphere as an inevitable aftermath.


 


I even used it sometimes as a substitute to my pen; dipping it extravagantly


in a bottle replete with blue blooded ink, 


However it floundered to achieve the required proficiency; and it was an apathy to view the mangled lines of literature that I had scribbled on the finely 


agglutinated paper.


 


But one thing was for sure; and I know all of you would ubiquitously agree with the same, 


My pair of sharp scissors served me the best when I used it to trim the


unruly hair inhabiting my scalp; the deplorable strands of moustache waywardly


drooping down my chin, 


Astoundingly transforming my demeanor from that of a bushy demon; to that of an impeccable God.



Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Sharp Scissors

198,094 Poems Read

Sponsors