Mud

There are slow days. There always will be, too;
Days when it seems like nothing really matters,
And everyone around you blankly chatters
Meaningless half-sentences that screw
Your concentration, when what you would do
Seems unimportant and your purpose shatters
Against ennui, when bare boredom batters
Focus away, and paints your mood so blue
You might as well go back to sleep at noon.
But on those days, at least for me, it seems
That though my arms move slowly, as in dreams,
And life no longer lets me do things 'soon,'
My fingers can still slowly reach your arm,
And touching it, release the vile charm.