Its as if...
fingerprints.
Your slice of being
the space you fling
on life.

And the remains
of being here...your trace.
This space that fills.
The frills (God what else?)
of your intense... fumbling?

Seems...only that.
And maybe... maybe intent?

Say: That's my intent.
Something...really meant.

You sought to go on
and to show on
the snail's silvering path
behind,
you sought to show...
some sign.

Leave...That sigh...
of used to be.
That being...your only spoor.

You.
Meant.

James Mills

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fingerprints-4/