In the flesh

They say she reeks of fingerprints
and the bystanders
hold their own standards
that point fingertips
at all the things
that they themselves
have never been caught doing.
But behind closed doors
everybody shifts into
their own unseen selves
that have been
closer to the things they most deny.
We’re keeping track
on what generates social limits
and rejuvenates moral relics
and as that layer beneath
has started to crack,
that dome of illusion
can now only shatter
and rain over those
just trying to survive.

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About Sean O'Gorman

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

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