I am an automaton,
More machine than man,
I glare back at my blank stare, My reflection in the river bed, I saw it last in spring,
But of time, I am unaware,

I’m built to finish a task,
For whom I do not ask
My body needs no rest,
On I go, One, then the next,
The blinding sun will rise and fall,
And in the process, a cog or two I have lost, Oh well, it's for the best,

Next is rain, I recall,

So I seek a roof and perhaps a bed,
To stop the rust from reaching my head, Out my window, I watch them all,
Every droplet in a harmonious freefall, And the leaves whose days are numbered, Shine their vermilion hue,
Awaiting their fall in solace,
A beauty in their limited freedom,
Time seems to give them value.

The winter comes,
And the world seems to fade,
My gears lock up in place,
The clockwork around me, as usual, is still, As the world is trapped in a numbing chill,

The echoes tell me I’m emotionless,
Who am I to disagree,
And even though inside my head the gears shift and clank My own memory is all but blank,

And as I continue to ruminate in the frost,
All I recollect is the day my purpose was lost.

Before the season’s lost to remembrance,
I was made of flesh and bone,
With blood pumping through the vein,
And a lovely magic I found in the mundane,

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, I was enamoured with it all,
And everything I loved stood beside me, I was so truly free,

Yet, as the seasons cycled and danced, forever unchanged The world and I had become estranged,

That which I loved had wilted,
Those I called home buried in the ground, And I was left all alone,

And slowly, my sanity was also gone,
Drenched by a voice that never stopped screaming, Blinded by a light that never stopped burning,
In the lie of happiness I believed in,
In hope I put my faith in,

Consumed by it all, I stopped feeling.

My mind I gave to those above me, My heart I lost in endless apathy, And my soul ...,
Well, it was always empty,

You see, I have chosen to be an iron shell,
Willingly chained in this cell,
And willingly locked away the world of recollection, truth, and all else,

There is nothing worth the pain, Brought on by freedom and a brain, And the heart’s ceaseless strain,

And again I say,
That I would rather be an automaton,
Rusting in the snow and rain,
Than experience time and all its sorrows again.