“The Fountain:” a Poem

Surrounding statues,

coins flying by all in the interest of holding time.

Is my entire life.

Pretty to look at

but too big to keep.

Meant for others.

Why isn’t it funny how the time passes by and I stay still?

My insides destroyed.

My outside made of stone.

The time alters.

But I am still with nowhere to go.

And no way to grow.

So, I draw people in to change what is inside.

Because when they look in me, they see possibility

in which they can hide.

• poem
• poetry