A door cannot swing on a single hinge,
must brace in a frame, tight, unyielding,
cut in a wall through which none can see.
And should that door be wrenched free,
the hinge will give, will drag the bolts free,
and crumple to the floor splintered.
And there, among bleak ignorance,
crouched in corners, huddled in droves,
my blind insipids cower in the heat of light.