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My Tardy Muse

Updated on March 19, 2013

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 cause
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.

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