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