~for M. G.*~
who discerned in a

witty three words,
my essence, perfumed~

<>
we all have in our own(ed)
personal debtors prison,
a chained inner child
asking always:
Am I there yet ?

sad smiling,
a 'no you are not,'
for to freedom day to arrive,
the child must unlock the chains,
no one else can be
permissioned!

someday he'll, rebelent,
will comprehend that
wishing insufficient,
asking nice,
once, thrice, millions
can’t break
the padlock,
And you have to walk away from the inner child,
Leave it to starve
Leave it to die
Leave it to be free
And just a regular grown-up guy!

So saddened
There will be no return
There will be no funeral
No keepsake memories
For the keeping
No capital letters
Just a path
Large yellow arrow pointing
This a way
Bluntly and without fuss, un accompanied by any special invitation,

You leave behind the writhing child
plodding forward,
Slightly offkilter, slightly off balance,
But no longer writhing,
Just drifting from the course,
Ever so slightly
Which is drama plenty,
But there is no morning mourning for the child left behind