My Tardy Muse

Seconds, minutes
waft by.
They taste
of ambrosia,
of certainty.

In this state
of stasis
I drift,
this is my home,
my reality.

Slow winds of peace
surround.
I sail;
passing time can caress
no calamity.

Hours shift the breeze.
I list,
I turn.
To the harbor,
my entropy.

To port I glide,
silent,
steady,
to vacant slip,
invariably.

Days, years, months,
I wait.
My tardy muse
calls for pardon,
inexorably.