We’ve all heard about dying young, but

we never thought that it was true.

We thought it’d be smooth.

We never thought it a ruse.

We were invincible.

We were the kings and queens.

We had no fear of death

or pestilence

or sorrow.

We were gods.

It took four years to break the mold.

Now we are all old.

Weak and weary, we’re tired. Dreary,

unvigilant, we’re lonely. It’s eerie.

After all these years, we stare death

in the clouded eyes, coaxing breath

from asphyxiating lungs, slowing anticipating minds,

questioning the design, and knowing that in time,

our fallen friend will gaze down

upon us as we pray

and smile.

And we were gods.