Tick, Tock

Beat, Beat, Beat

The pump begins to churn.

What marvel through the eyes
of the delicate conceiver:

The countdown has begun!

The teeny tick, The tiny tock
of prematurity

Beat, Beat, Beat, Beat

Through time of persistence.

Tick the Tock. The painful clock
of merely adaptation

Becomes the Sun, the centered one
of insubordination.

Beating still, the pump of gold
which marvels eyes of all,

the sight is clear, it knows within

it notices the count.

Dwindling, It's time will fade,
with every single beat.

Time shall cease, eventually
and black will smother gold.

Tick along, Tock the song,
which resonates the beat

Attracting all the shine
which polishes the gold

Beating, Beating, Beating young

when numbers tell the count is old.

84, 94, the count is nearly done.

But have no fear, my golden son,

Your song has just begun!