The waters rise slowly, at first - like a cool tease or flirt. But soon there's not one single inch of dry or exposed dirt. It's knee-high seas for as far as the naked eye can see. The shrubs are drowned, and there're no trunks on any of the trees. I'm sick of being soaked, and hope the world will quickly drain, and restore what was once a vast expanse of fruitful plains.
I hate those flash floods that cause damage and leave everything soaked. I enjoyed your poem.
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Thanks
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