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