An Illusion To The Temporary Real (Chalice)

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