Return to Flotsam (poetry)

The pawns are moving,
the dice keeps rolling,
a man in solitary house cries.

Pot that I emptied of past,
is waiting in the line for future,
baked throats are never quenched.

My mind a blade of grass,
words form like dew drops,
silence sways with the breeze.

The flotsam appears here,
from the shoreline of thoughts,
sea is clean leaving debris behind.

Existing:


Non-Existing: