Change

There's no such thing as change in one's self, We are born, and then we are shaped; Like a mound of clay on a spinning wheel, Time works its way around us With callused hands, Until we are too dry and brittle to be reformed.

But while we are not able to truly change who we are at our core, Our surface endures a flurry of chips, and dents, and pockmarks For the true test of time is not how one's form is morphed, It's the final shape after it has survived a life well-lived.