Poem: The Obtuse

A poem about being slow and stuck in your head

Tired path, slow trek through 
Mud-ridden gravel stained road. 
Water avoiding ground, sifting 
Through dirt, grainy like sand. 
The snail wishes for fast, 
Withheld by its own capacity. 

No noting, no cloud-gray 
Blanketing sky, puzzling the 
Trail, sullen path it slithers. 
The dawdler breathes, but 
There’s no denial: loneliness 
Is the only blanket it knows. 

A lack of esteem, a thought of 
A crippled night breaking 
Through evening sunrays– 
Poring over browning cobble. 
The idler remains inert, yet 
Too lost in its own head to
Notice the cawing above–
A fall into quick depression, 
But too obtuse to escape.