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.
Need help? firstname.lastname@example.org