Change is inevitable,
But we resist as though we have a choice
We fear the unknown,
Even though we know that's the road we're on...
The older we get,
The more complacent we become
And the less we change,
The harder it is to move—
Forward, backward, sideways...
New vantage points slip through our fingers
As we stagnate and begin to rot
The stench of stillness radiating from our core
Until we become a statue,
A mysterious figure found in ruins
Wishing we could move
Wishing we could change.