The marksman

Things are said
when being done,
missing something
when all else fails
and these joining fingers
each link up for a reason.
Somewhere in the trees
there’s a marksman.
Watching you walk over
every step of turned earth
while your feet sink
into the unknown grass.
Here, none of the rocks will hide you
and nothing higher
will shade
as his eyes pierce
and his mind remembers
and his hands…
hands that could cut through glass
are just waiting
until he’s ready.

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About Sean O'Gorman

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

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