By Adewale Oluwafunmibi Adeolu
Shadows collide and overlap; did they press too near?
Halt, desist, leave and disperse, was it pressed too clear?
Finally settled the dust, did they press too tight?
End of story, let’s all forget, was it pressed too right?
The scribe wrote the tale, was the press too neat?
What have you done, was it pressed too sweet?
Just my job, sir, did we press too rash?
And some story for the camp, was it pressed too brash?
Words of danger on the street, is the press too loud?
Winds blow and fire roars, are they pressed too proud?
Uncontrollably spread too far, did they press too wide?
Gods quickly made it rain, was it pressed too snide?
In the cold, the righteous shiver, are they pressed too fair?
No house, no shelter, no cover, is the press too bare?
Yet in the bleak is a hidden fire, are they pressed too blind?
The harsh weather made inks dry, is the press too kind?
Slide down the social ladder, was the press too steep?
Away from us lest we fall, was it pressed too deep?
A halting hand from a higher Order, were they pressed too rough?
But he is not one of us, was it pressed too tough?
Screams of a clicking board, is the press too scarred?
Tears of a scribbling pen, is it pressed too charred?
But suppressed is the end result; is it pressed too marred?
Or is Press just too Hard?
This story was originally published under AASA Press
