theres periods 

of mourning, 

every morning. 

when the seasons change, 

when they days get longer, or shorter. 

i feel a deep dread, a doomed life ahead of me.

no matter how much i begged the maker for the days to change length, 

when they do I can see so far ahead, 

that the ends in sight.

and that end is kind, but cruel. 

so far ahead that the seasons no longer, 

need to be.