A Death More Incarcerating

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: January 24, 2018

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Submitted: January 24, 2018

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It seemed nothing odd to me; if the walls of my stomach didn't crave for a single morsel of succulently bountiful food; even for an infinite indefatigably painstaking of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if the whites and blacks of my eye didn't crave for a single globule of compassionately celestial moisture; even for an infinite limitlessly acerbic of my lifetimes,
 
It seemed nothing odd to me; if my intricate veins didn't crave for a single pinch of poignantly crimson blood; even for an infinite boundlessly treacherous of my  lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if the periphery of my lips didn't crave for a single innuendo of blissful smile; even for an infinite unsurpassably satanic of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if the hollows of my ears didn't crave for a single trace of euphoric sound; even for an infinite uncouthly divesting of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if the periphery of my bones didn't crave for a single horizon of strength; even for an infinite salaciously lambasting of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if the trajectory of my cheeks didn't crave for a single triumphant blush; even for an infinite ominously debilitating of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if the soles of my feet didn't crave for a single cushion of ebullient grass; even for an infinite indiscriminately crippling of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if the curvatures of my untamed nails didn't crave for a single uninhibitedly ardent itch; even for an infinite hedonistically massacring of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if the passageways of my throat didn't crave for a single ounce of water; even for an infinite tyrannically devastating of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if my armpits didn't crave for a single trickle of enchantingly golden sweat; even for an infinite unstoppably penalizing of my  lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if my eyelashes didn't crave for a single feather of fantastically unbridled sensuousness; even for an infinite unceasingly slandering of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if my tongue didn't crave for a single jet of tantalizingly emphatic saliva; even for an infinite brutally asphyxiating of my lifetimes,
 
It seemed nothing odd to me; if my majestic manhood didn't crave for a single  draught of spell binding fertility; even for an infinite parasitically obsolete of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if my strangulated nostrils didn't crave for a single breath of unlimitedly mesmerizing freshness; even for an infinite diabolically slaining of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if the jagged outlines of my teeth didn't crave for a single wholeheartedly reinvigorating bite; even for an infinite disparagingly oblivious of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if the apertures of my hindside didn't crave
for a single symbiotically ameliorating expurgation; even for an infinite traumatically castigated of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if my heart didn't crave for a single beat of unassailably fructifying love; even for an infinite tawdrily truculent of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if my conscience didn't crave for a single horizon of everlastingly blessed righteousness; even for an infinite violently unsparing of my lifetimes,

It seemed nothing odd to me; if my soul didn't crave for a single beam of optimistically enlightened peace; even for an infinite dolorously pulverizing of my lifetimes,

But if the fathomless realms of my brain didn't crave for immortally bestowing poetry even for an infinitesimal single second; I perished to an end more ghastly than the most forlornly flagrant of hell; a death which was more sadistically incarcerating; than an infinite of an infinite more of my destined lifetimes.


© Copyright 2018 Nikhil Parekh. All rights reserved.

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