dreams are never done,
final victories never won.
They end up curled, collecting dust
like metal things
with broken wings
epitomised by rust.
their dreams are all too true.
Glory clings to them like glue.
And when that moment longed for appears
and they’ve celebrated their faces red
with friends, people, words all said,
they trundle off to bed
but in the dark the moment queers
and to one thought their sleepless mind steers
These are the ones
with expectations high
and you can be assured
they won’t be heading for the sky.
So if you’re wondering what I’ve writ,
perhaps your skull is built too thick,
For you are Gods first pick,
his golden children,
his last trick.