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.