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.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: January 13th, 2018 22:15
- Category: Nature
- Views: 11
- User favorite of this poem: Noah.
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