Starved Poem by Nikhil Parekh

Every writer is starved for a publisher; the indispensable channel to propagate his work ubiquitously into the entire world,

Every granule of desert sand is starved for cloudbursts of rain; those glistening globules of water to impart it with new life,

Every eye is starved for beauty; those ravishing forms of mysticism which grant unsurpassable pleasure and a glint to its exhausted persona,

Every valley is starved for an echo; that voluptuously resonating sound that clashes delectably against the gloominess of the still atmosphere,

Every scorpion is starved for a sting; those robust globs of innocuous flesh; which grace it the astronomical privilege of piercing its ominous tentacles,

Every sports car is starved for a driver; who can grip its steering wheel with insurmountable machismo; speed it at whirlwind speeds; with its nozzle handsomely
permeating through majestic carpets of air,

Every dog is starved for a bone; the tantalizing slices of red meat to appease its gluttony till unprecedented limits,

Every mosquito is starved for immaculate entities; on whose impeccable flesh it could sit all day; and satanically suck blood all throughout the savage night,

Every lip is starved for a kiss; that volatile inferno of unimaginable passion it stirred at the tiniest of caress,

Every armpit is starved for sweat; that fountain of shimmering juice which made it feel all the more stupendously exotic,

Every ear is starved for the voice of the nightingale; that ingratiating fantasy which it inevitably fomented; as it slowly drifted before blending with the senses,

Every knuckle is starved for a punch; that astounding feeling of bravado which irrefutably descended; as it pounded through loose balls of open space,

Every soul is starved for childhood; those profusely mischievous moments which divinely tickled it to rise higher above the angels,

Every barren pond is starved for the royal lotus; the magnanimously alluring odor that profoundly illuminated each second of its unfurling life,
Every telephone is starved for a melodious ring; that inexorably tinkling sound that made all around it rise with unanimous solidarity,

Every butterfly was starved for sunlight; those fiery beams of the Sun God which filtered optimistic rays of hope in its miserably cloistered existence; engendered
it to dance and fly,

Every mind was starved for ravishing fantasy; fathomlessly fabulous dreams which incessantly kept it in a state of perpetual bliss,

Every heart was starved for its beloved; the incomprehensible ardor she generated to unrelentingly accelerate its each beat,

And every life was starved for love; that immortal affinity it solely desired since the time it took its first breath; the very reason it was still breathing and alive.