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 unsewm pods of violence. I have still not come to terms with the neck high milkless gaze. SATISH VERMA