ROCKS AND SKULLS

It was like spidural 
dry crumbs of silence descending, 
a still born sun popped out 
through a raw hoematoma: 

mountain was guilty of something, 
it changed its mood and started 
talking to clouds until the sky 
turned crimson. The fountains had 

a question for the bald owls, who under 
the lidless eyes, always carried a massage 
of colossal waste after the unholy 
dinner. I know your glory was beckoning 

to unflesh the bones in mass grave 
of winged seeds who died in unsewn 
pods of violence. I have still not come to 
terms with the neck high milkless gaze.

Satish Verma