Washed

Maybe our hands seem nervous,
dripping down our arms
over a lasting arena
where the world’s greatest fighters
have all
come to forget.
The forgiving nature
becoming itself,
like a wind
to itself
for times when storms
rise up mountains
to create risk
beneath a stronger rain
where all the best
turn up to die.

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About Sean O'Gorman

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

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