Magnus Grace

Golden.

Glistening in the sunlight.

The smooth, metallic surface felt too fine to touch.

Like a perfectly formed apple, round and shiny

As small as a dollar coin.

Though it weighed much more than you’d think

Music is great

But being compared to your best friend isn’t

Music is great

What about the dreamers 

who stare up at the stars 

What about the dreamers 

whose hopes shimmer like sparklers in the night 

What about the dreamers 

I want to grow up but I don’t.

But I do

but I don’t.

But lucky for me I don’t have to make that decision.

I’m forced to grow up whether I like it or not.

The thrum,

The pulse,

The ever-increasing

All-consuming

Tick-tock

Tick-tock

Tick-tock

Counting down

The end.

The

End.

We all know it.