The Unconsciously Conscious Confession. Poem by Subrata Ray

The transient evenings,
With eyes of fall and missing,
With sparrows twitters,
And disguised names,
Come and recede behind.

I have plucked greed-yoked flowers,
In the green-tide of my rebuilding,
But Oh! I must go I am withering.

Wait, I wish to say something,
Though, I know, you would,
Come, wipe your face and go.

I am an uncertain future of myself,
And a stand-still present of ferments,
I wear invisibly colored garments.

I have no thought of any lot or fate,
I am more than a hanged-man's tedious wait.

Now a purpose bubbles,
But a crowd of operated faces flash in the T.V Cble.
My reverie tunnels all those sweetly horrible.

Where is my double?
Where is my other?
I have a broken mirror,
I Have a smoke sedimented cup.