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.
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