Your trail remains, circuitous and slick,
a twisted, shining ode to aimless thought
but you are vanished, tragically affixed;
a precipice of slats contains you, caught,
forever mired in space too wide to sense
but fatal for your shell's impressive girth.
In digging down, you sought the warm incense,
the fragrant urgency of covered earth,
but found a tomb. This porch will press you tight
until your shell is hollowed by the sun.
You'll end your days in pondering your plight
while atoms of your flesh disperse to none.
    Misguided by the force that drove you, snail,
    you've traced that which betrayed you in your trail.

 
March, '00