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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
Written by Owen Tilley
4 years ago 
