Fraud,
she sits there
because it’s easier to be a part
than an individual

Doubt is her chosen path
to Truth
and yet she still follows
even as her conscience objects
overtly, secretly, confusedly

Follower of no path
but the one her conscience leads her to create
she’s tortured by the pretending, if it is pretending—
is it? Is it so horrible to follow what can be good
what is sometimes interesting, sometimes comforting, sometimes even
seemingly right
but is usually frustrating, usually,
a time not of catharsis but of frowningly painful thought,
of contemplative rejection,
of despairing sadness at the mindlessness
of those who follow because they have nothing to lose,
disregarders of her God— Truth

But perhaps she’s worse,
because at least they believe,
or assume they do
while she,
wanna-be conscientious believer,
sits there, tortured by duty to Truth
that she is not sure how do follow—
Is acceptance of some and rejection of the rest the answer?
Or complete rejection?
That newness, that rebirth into the unknown
entices her with beauteous reason and feeling,
but still she does not know
and perhaps shall never know—
one day she’ll just have to decide,
maybe.