Tristen

17

Each drop beads down his throat,
The fountains deluge,
The pitter patter slows,
Each sweet sip caresses his heart,
His thirst unquenched
As the fountain dries.

The trees grow older, stronger, but lose their color,
The flowers bloom for the last time,
As the fountain dries,

He washes his hair and body as the last drops fall,
He stands, he has grown tall,
His sandy hair darkens as it dries,
He peers through a mirror to see his face,

The cracks on his face have healed for the last time,
The imperfections have scarred his resemblance,
For who he says he does not remember,

All he remembers is a fountain,
That bathed him as he played,
Each hour,
Each day,
Each year,
He bathed,

The fountain had always helped admonish the wrong,
Extinguishing it from his soul,

All he remembers now is the day the fountain dried up,
His fountain,
Of youth.