The hair on my skin is standing
and I’m feeling a little twisted,
it’s like I’ve risked this long enough
and the thickest threads thrash then throw us
like we were wanting wasted wishes to warn us
of the fear of a future forgotten by friends.

I’m holding my own hand
in this place that needs a little more,
a little more mourning the meanings of many forgotten things,
where people pick portions from places posing prosperity
and giving grated glass glistening
like rainbows using rain to relay a real reaction.


About Sean O'Gorman

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

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