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Poem

We weave opinions like threads in a loom,
each strand steeped in the waters of fear,
each dye is drawn from the wells of desire,
stitched by unseen hands that pull the loom taut—
a tapestry frayed, its truths tangled,
warped beneath the weight of all we refuse to bear.

We claim to know the facts,
but knowledge is a restless shadow,
twisting itself to fit the shapes we crave.
It does not reflect the world—
only the stories we whisper to ourselves
in the silence of unchallenged belief.

We turn from voices sharp enough to cut,
from questions that splinter the calm we defend.
In the embrace of conviction,
we barricade ourselves with fragments of certainty,
stacking walls of fractured glass,
letting the world blur beyond the cracks,
its raw light is too bright to bear.

But truth does not kneel to longing—
it does not soften beneath the weight of want.
It is not ours to sculpt or weave.
It is a seamless expanse,
ripping through the lie,
a fabric unyielding to the hands
that twist its threads.

If we could part the veil we have spun,
undo each stitch with an honest hand,
pull the tapestry apart, strand by strand,
would we see the world as it is—
not the reflection of our desires,
but the unvarnished weight of what must be?

Or would we flinch?

Would we reach for the threadbare comfort of the lie,
reweaving the pattern in our image,
patching the gaps where the truth broke through,
binding the edges before they unraveled completely?

Because truth does not break.

We do.

And it waits, patient yet unrelenting,
beyond the patchwork of our bias—

Whole.

Unmoved.

Waiting to be seen.

Waiting for us to shatter.

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