The people pour themselves into imagined containers
Of who they believe themselves to be,
But every construct has its holes and we never see the truth.

We keep leaking out of personalities
And building new stories to catch our watered souls
Until we finally run out of our liquids.

No fountain of youth restores the waters of life
And we excrete ourselves through our sweat cum blood saliva
Until we have nothing else to let out.

The clay people dry up fastest,
Even though time with them feels longest,
With their terracotta personalities –
Inflexible, choking and stagnant –
And those who become the tides of change
Live fastest and best.