Flat is the water,

where dreams roll over

past chances and hands

with palms exposed pleading truth

and roads chosen too soon release

darkened unfamiliar clouds

where thunder presses the chest

and rain washes the better part

of shadows from the skin

while tired legs

search and find

glimpses of places

where words breathe uneasily

and latches open from hard travel,

where dust sticks fast

and rivers pull me into the flow.

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