All kinds of things burn when the lights go out

and that smell rolls in from outside.

That drifting scent that wafts in curls

and dissipates the dissemination of the only truth we have left.

I have all day, but I still feel I’m running out of time,

like running out on lovers

who’re still finding their shoes

and dropping the lights

for the dark and confused.

I’ve met so many people

but only given half my name,

that one word that barely describes me,

but always seems to be

the best way

to get my attention.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

5 responses to “Calling

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