Post Meridian

The slow cloudy afternoon sighs
Reluctant stumbler of the skies
We are the ebb of its apathy
The flow, recoiled in a cavity

The candle in my chest wavers
Savouring the welkin’s flavours
Behind a sluggish haze it swirls
Arms developing from its burls

My branches inch towards the steam
Of a coffee cup topped with cream
Veins, lightning within the bloodstream
The day, my spine, resemble a dream

Something should be said of the dog,
It’s wet nose breeding a gentle fog,
Its paws twitching in reverie,
Racing across my memories

Something might be said of the writer
Something might be said of the reader
Of why the nerves stumble forwards
Why we persist through these waters

Placid yet looming these moments
Numb shows via TV components
Slither their way over carpets
And mark us their naive targets

Though dragged by these tidal clouds
I endure in the present crowd
Stretched, from here now to before
Looking out from the afternoon shore