The Mistake

He sits lamenting, immortal of flesh and spear, tears silent to understanding, tortured by this fear. In the wanton hours of a cascading midnight noon, the immortal ponders stillness conscious of his doom. To comprehend a million Moons, quivering with a celestial fright, like an unending frigid winter, becomes his only plight. Why must this soul dim? stretched beyond the ordered span, death becomes something living, not merely a means to an end.