The Passing Touch Poem by Subrata Ray

The winking wake of my fake,
As the inevitable Nature-calls,
And mending the ravages,
Of my acting knave and hero,
And my show for no trauma,
Dig the grave of my corpse.

I hang my degree and tricks,
I advertise my contrived countenance,
And engage agents, and arrange bribe,

Mine is a nowhere, and no where it would be,
And yet the confused compulsion threatens me,
What else but nasty garbage my van were,
Had not I had the passing Divine here,
And His occasional touch in this horrible drama.