On one hand she bars the door and bolts it fast,
Her soul securely sure, her cynicism drawn
Like a weapon, to save her from truth at last.
Afraid to be a pawn, she is a pawn;
Her fear a captive makes while she looks on,
Blindly willing her freedom past.
On the other, irresistible urges
Pull her unwitting, a moth to fire;
An impulse innate toward goodness surges
Against her will, that unwelcome Higher.
The thing she won't admit, that alone purges.
Hints abound, in "Unmoved Movers" and "Demiurges,"
And dead men rise, to call her heart a liar.