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.
Satish Verma
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