Yours Truly , But My Heart At Times

By Ritu Borah

Tell Improve that its general flag dissents :

No internal rebellion ! , just truth

I must be thus —

This form ! —

nothing less , and nowhere more.

Nobody should gift me a shroud when I become nothing but me.

This is no technical glitch ;

I am a free verse telling my story ,

Truly, for my heart at last .

Beneath everything,

Poor me,

the prism of emotions' high and low,

a half-world, half light phantom ,

Probably alive in an alien ship's cosmic

Carol, through a lens of cajole.

Where phosphor monkeys fly up and down the sill,

Wart- scarred, red , and brown heads

Chase a green, round dot,

over a face , tabloid and jaundiced .

Crayons fill the void —

Fish's terracotta insurance ,

the world 's subtle mask

worn on a canvas of hide and seek !

pen pals everywhere.

Pre-world characters

lived in postponed worlds.

Man still

lives in the caves and ages well,

And understood halogen and hygro gyration,

As if the mad poet danced in a four-heel of spark .

Grandfather who brainstormed ten Anglo-Indian dictionaries,

dictated Spell Bee troops—

A cipher of the snippet from a trumpeter :

Some latitudes : an adjective

to an accountant verb—

Two lips mimicking the freedom of an owl.

Dad's favorite pride is the swallowed silence,

And tides' chime pours on a loose rope, While a sleepless sea at the side of a bus sheet roams.

Look how Dolly looks like a doll,

And Polly looks like a pole.

The photographer whispered in its abruptness: This, it seems, scampered through the living forestry.

A mysterious island of poor signal

Trades the wild forest into a bee spectrum;

but the studio of botany whispers :

The rooted tree lives more than the branches do.

The running water caresses its fingers on a leaf's map .

A great hammer , perhaps , would cleave this rock !

It has a 3D sky's magnitude with four eyes , see off !

Two friends coolly , measuring the bush ;

one hero , tall as three horses , screams

at a horseshoe lake —

Could then the chief , on the screen's dark back ,

light alive ,

Like binoculars that killed the night's sorcery ?

If only I could have one dictionary of Ravan’s ten heads to speak all truth ,

And understood the Tamil of your hillocks .

Yours truly , but my heart at times .

By Ritu Borah