Closed eyes put up images
of bloated bellies,
half smiling lips and truths in plenty
to create illusions.

And an idea emerges
to fill up a space in time.
Guilt speaks out without prompting
and I feel crushed.

Fierce little words invade
and I analyze vainly.

And a cauldron burns energies
of stirrings of gods,
while searing heat burns and re-burns
as the body refuses to agree
where tragedy occurs.

And still I derive pleasure
from the closed eyes.