You won’t remember this face
once the last of time
does the touching
and I weave
back into my own clothes.
I’m just hiding in the cracks
until the masses stop ignoring themselves,
thinking of the things
that we can all do together,
but I get stopped by my own excuses
and even something as simple
as timing
becomes less than a whisper
in the ears
of someone who’s starving.


About Sean O'Gorman

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

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