It came to me like snails come to gardens Ready to consume A trail of slime leads Towards Leaves and pine This thing called living The importance of it Thee un-important parts of it This thing that is death may move with haste or haste without It may move slow to fill you with dread and doubt We appreciate it cause we are it Alive and dead to death Yet we dance abreast A flamenco of youth To a waltz of wisdom Finally slow clap in chair Applaud the band as the ship sinks Like looking for lost clothes in a pile full, we look for purpose. Every once in awhile we find just the trousers we were looking for.