Return to Flotsam (poetry)

The [pawns are the soul of chess|pawns] are moving,
the [chance|dice] keeps rolling,
a man in solitary house cries.

[pot|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.