Immortal, I Am Not

Being immortal means I watch the seasons change,

quicker than a mortal eye can blink. 

Though, I appreciate the beautiful range-

of colors of fall, it does not fill the sink-

hole in my immortal heart. 

I no longer notice the moon's new phases, 

as I have became sick of my immortal part-

in this play of nature, that has twists that are mazes-

to the mortal mind. I cannot enjoy the sun.

As the seasons change, I start to run,

trying to get more of the season I love. 

It never works, as peace is like a dove,

it flies away without my immortal say. 

Once I reach for the season I love most,

it's icy hands in mine,

my eyes open, as the sun fills my room.

It was all a sick dream, that felt like rot. 

Immortal, I am not.