Sense the Censor

Help is the hand of feathers

That worships by the scroll

And when the sunshine fades away

It worships not at all


Help is the heartfelt censure

That reminds of Censor’s, old

And when devoid of promises

It rends the Censor, cold


Help is the oft-used epithet

That means nothing if misplaced

And then help creates a modern ruse

And leaves an undue trace


And it can’t compete with courage –

Italicised and bold –

And then constructs a storyline

It knows will be foretold


A story of the birth of hand

That opens door to grace

And hope and bravery will knock

On aspiration’s face


That look be strong, at one’s own will

Which knows it can be done

Sense the Censor’s chill in summer’s warmth

And then the game be won!

Published by Owen Tilley


Reply heres...

Login / Sign up for adding comments.