My lines of demarcation solidify,
As I wake from a dream of which
only implications remain.
I hope he sees the whole picture
And not just this primed fragment;
If only to gain a sense of aspiration.
Compassion is more than this,
Where words are usurped from some tired source.
A silent competition bears no fruit;
It eclipses substance in favor of subtlety,
And echoes only of the line of supposed survival.
Whose eyes have you inherited?
If they no longer mirror mine.
Even clouded yet with the vestiges of sleep and fading memory.
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