Losing my hand, the one clasped
round a crutch I've never made.

Losing my mind by simply
submitting to routine, repetition
of unnecessary thought.

Losing my procreative choice,
because my objections remain
voiceless.

A gesture lost to action, action
over intent, intent instead of
purpose. As though it had any
reason to be qualified, or quantified.

Losing the, "High ground," the "Perspective"
the advantage of knowing from where
all is coming.

Losing all the angles, the objectives,
because it's better to be committed
to the guidance of other's
you're no leader, trapped in semantics.

Gaining concession, conciliatory
victory, opened eyes, compassionate
ears; whisper to me sages, kings, and
queens I'm becoming.