Ground to dust

Seeing through ourselves
and the words,
tossing and turning
like the blank stare
offering us all
but the wounds.
This,
in my dancing memory,
where the day dies out
and the lights go on.
Feeding the crawlers
who creep from
floor to floor.
The people are here,
asking questions
and playing games,
their simple looks fading while
brushing up against each other
before washing out to sea.

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About Sean O'Gorman

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

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