What Is It

What is it that makes us speak with eloquence,
Oscillates the fleshy organ of tongue in mouth.

What is it that makes us decipher infinite lines of condensed literature,
Lies trapped in hollow sockets of visual apparatus.

What is it that makes us sweat like an invincible river,
Exorbitantly saps reserve quotas of hidden energy.

What is it that tickles daintily stitched threads of conscience,
Vacillates with every unfolding minute of life.

What is it that makes our hair stand when bitter cold,
Causes surplus goose-bumps multiplying infectiously by the minute.

What is it that lifts our bodies from periphery of earth,
Prompts us to run fast when struck with fear.

What is it that bestows us with a satiny shadow,
Attracts us unanimously towards impeccable pillars of love.

What is it that triggers us to laugh with zeal and profound enthuse,
Imparts us with the bountiful quality of being chivalrous.

What is it that causes incoherent pressure to evacuate our bowels,
Facilitates in healing raw islands of sordid wounds.

What is it that makes us cry in bouts of agonizing hysteria,
Renders us mutilated exposed to the tyranny of life.

What is it that makes us hungry like untamed demons,
Inspires us to trample the innocent indiscreetly.

What is it that makes us oblivious to ticking hours of the clock,
Give our hearts to the person we vehemently love,
Dedicate our lives in due submission of the deity we adore and pray.


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