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Beau

Filters

Strange how much becomes unclear,
How little can be realised
When that which we all rightly fear
Is first examined and revised
And neatly sanitized.

Strange how little filters past
The deep desiring to cleanse;
The straining out from first to last,
The poison from the pens,
The violence from the lens.

Stranger how restraint is urged
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Where such has never ever been;
Where smell and hell are deftly purged
Before they reach the screen –
The filters come between.

Strange the image that I dreamed,
Too fearful ever to confide;
Unsifted and unclean it seemed,
And so unpurified.
I was terrified,
I almost died...