Some days, one becomes a shell. The creature that used to be within, is elsewhere. This is oddly interesting. One picks it at. There’s some pain. The scab is fascinating – All scabby and rough, but slick with memory, Like snail-trails leading somewhere, But no one knows quite where, or why. On some days, one could face Nothingness with ease. Would the shell then get back to being elemental? Make a garden grow? Adorn a god’s desk? Becoming elemental again – How soothing that would be! Death needs no drama, no fuss. It just flows along, doing its job. So does life, busy doing hers. So, I’ll get on with it – For I’ve some swimming to do, Before I find my shell again. _______________________________________________