Flood: Years of Solitude

To the one who sets a second place at the table anyway.   

To the one at the back of the empty bus.

To the ones who name each piece of stained glass projected on a white wall.

To anyone convinced that a monologue is a conversation with the past.

To the one who loses with the deck he marked.   

To those who are destined to inherit the meek.   

To us.