Hoarders and Deniers
Those in denial grow comfortable
with the look and smell
of the world they have assembled,
seeking neither tools nor light.
Much like heavy hoarders
who no longer notice the piles.
Beliefs quietly bloom
in the fertile ground
of unexamined reality,
like a beaver raising a dam,
branch by branch,
until the water forgets
where it once flowed,
until reason can barely pass
through crowded rooms of certainty.
It takes effort
to clear a path
for the insistent work of logic,
to let the mind move freely.
The light that would show the floor
has its own kind of weight.
Even clarity asks to be carried,
and truth, a burden long mistaken
for the shape of the room.
A blindness practiced so long
it begins to feel
like home.