We have blind wind chimes
that mingle more than a crowd of strangers.
Their noise echoes movement along winds
that hit you like a promise,
where excess represses our gifts of love
along avenues that house the scuff-marks we’ve left behind.

It’s so cold outside you can see it when I breathe.
Steaming like weightless streams in the air
where bare backs shiver before they’ve even left the house
and the cold snow collects on my glasses
until their handles burn my ears
and the whispers I mumble beg for release.

It’s like I’m begging for forgiveness,
forgetting about having and holding
that pain that hurt the most
like it had been waiting out of wanting
to see a look on my face change
into a stranger range of expression.

So I’ve recalculated my limits
after hearing what some of you really think,
Running with half of a broken story
that knows it cant answer all the questions
until the puzzles fit to form
a better reason to forget.


About Sean O'Gorman

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

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