When we’re tired
the rest seems wicked,
looking on
as the last die
and squeeze
whatever’s in their hands.
In the necessity
we reach our goals,
reminded and remembered
where both sides testify,
relying on fate
like amber wishes
when they look good enough to eat.
But at best
we have our smiles,
the grim grins
that explain
these milder flows
where a cover-up
can be this simple.
A changing name
with broken letters,
like dust in the air
that flakes onto the ground,
hiding our footprints
and all the things
we’ve lost along the way.


About Sean O'Gorman

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

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