Afternoon

I walk,
Yet it is not I
Precisely;
The body
Unmoored from mind
Automates.

My mind
In vapor adrift
Is not home.
The mist
Is formless and void
In lame grey.

Even so,
There are Grey Havens,
Or at least
A voice
From beyond the sun
So rumors.

Perhaps
The walker is I.
The flesh
Itself
Is maybe so dull.
Eh, caffeine?

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