Chagrined, I lie ensconced between the dreaming and the dead
Let my eyes perceive degrees and not directions
For the
sanguine expectations that embellished prior years
Are the fervent hopes now lost in imperfections
The emaciated soul seeks to
conceptualize itself
In an illusion to the temporary real
Within, thus beyond, we segregate our spirits
From the probing hands
that touch but cannot feel
Through cognitive dysfunction aspirations stay utopian
Like dying leaves that to their branch still
hold
Unaware their will may yet delineate futility
They agitate a flame already cold
Plagued with trepidation through the
volatile states
Foreordination links me to the now
For even if I sought escape I'd only leave despair
And my death would be one
final awkward bow