Paranoia

Looks like I touched a raw nerve, mon ami,
although you may be the one with problems, not me,
I am tolerant, compassionate, when I want to be,
but somebody once accused me of being a zombie.

I can never die, as much as I might wish to try,
from the pages, The Gods of Foxcroft gave me a new body, 
every century I'll drag my chains past your door,
I won't remember, even worry, what I had before.

Look at your life - such Earthly dramas paramount,
so many, every day - you start losing all count,
mine's not as bad as portrayed, once I even got laid,
then oddly accused of, falsely, not having paid.

When you see some white dust in distance heavenly,
unlike your sad, to be curtailed life, then it's me.