Its as if... <br />fingerprints. <br />Your slice of being <br />the space you fling <br />on life. <br /> <br />And the remains <br />of being here...your trace. <br />This space that fills. <br />The frills (God what else?) <br />of your intense... fumbling? <br /> <br />Seems...only that. <br />And maybe... maybe intent? <br /> <br />Say: That's my intent. <br />Something...really meant. <br /> <br />You sought to go on <br />and to show on <br />the snail's silvering path <br />behind, <br />you sought to show... <br />some sign. <br /> <br />Leave...That sigh... <br />of used to be. <br />That being...your only spoor. <br /> <br />You. <br />Meant.<br /><br />James Mills<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fingerprints-4/
