Filters - Beau

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

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