Silent Accents

They tell me different things at different times,

when I’m happy

they talk about sunlight and a universe of stars,

but when I’m sad

they describe the kind of things

that only nuns and mercenaries

have either seen or heard stories about.

Most of the time

I just wish they sang something indifferent,

something that didn’t matter

like the plastic cups that don’t break when they fall,

or the half-glances from stranger

who forget you the moment they pass you by.


About Sean O'Gorman

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

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