STONES IN CRYPT

It was midnight moon 
cruising in the bedroom. 
I step aside in the depressed window, 
watch the overwhelming spillover. 

I listen, then do not listen to alien voices 
of bipolar beings, speaking Aryan, 
artfully in cryptic signs 
crunching the bones. 

Black crucibles throw up bright stars, 
in cruciferous crow bars. Pungent 
smell of armpits. Dizzing heights 
of memorials, becoming digital targets. 

Deathless deluge of totems, claim the 
corpse of earth. The screams start 
coming from buried caskets. 
Divining rods disappear. 

Blue spirits trying to fly away.

Satish Verma