On The Boil

You would not know,
when, a desire,
becomes kismet.

A face shrinks
and glasses become large.

You squeeze your eyes
and look into the sinkhole.
It had devoured the holy spirit.
the thoughts, the poems.

I survive the limbs,
the body, and walk out from
the prison of prayers.

You do not want a deemed liberation.

Only blind spots will do.