Sense and Censorships
It’s a weekend, the 7th day – rest –
be thankful, smile, be blessed,
except here, they’re certain it’s best
to call it differently. Take some young teacher,
nothing special, with features
still forming; setting - not the finished article,
but with some potential.
You could work on shaping clay
with fettling knives, ribs, pray
that come some far-flung day
she could rise up, inspire, spark fire.
One day, the officeholders come to call
wielding spreadsheets, paperknives and small
grievances spread large like deserts.
Ah, books. Shred literature, censor art
with references to those parts
of growth and life deemed by him unfit
they’ll Fahrenheit 451 it –
or close schools, pick up tools, censure fools
who dare to dream beyond rules –
hide heads in black
and use AI to attack
because it’s sense she lacks.
Voices so small they’re hardly voices at all
must bite their lips
as starving populations watch inflation grip,
drowning not waving from sinking ships,
on activists’ necks the snug noose fits.
Easy lie crowns upon heads that sit
and watch them blowing each other to bits.
No comments:
Post a Comment