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