The Irony Of Metaphysical Taste. Poem by Subrata Ray

The tubs set with dreamy faces,
In daily lore of petrol
To fuel hope, delude substance,
And suck the treasure house.

The daily magic, born of metaphysical taste,
Direct whims to shun and run the spindle,
As if the metaphysical , mantles the tenor,
Of destiny's appointed hours.

From ceaseless caverns of supernatural,
Desire-bonded desires bubble and walk,
Mischievous pranks of dialectic nature,
Recreate the gratification's passport.

Hi young proud, and punished hubris,
You both were on the same platform,
And are with the same sun, -
In course of East and the west.