Why isn’t it “(p)syc(h)ophant”?

Has my life become a prison?

Have I forgotten

what it (really) means to be (really) free?

To experience the helpless, trusting child,

who is somewhere deep inside of me;

the quiet place that is so scary alone and

totally dependent on some other,

naturally, automatically, like

the child and the animals and the saints;

unless one was orphaned early,

like the other brother,

never in love or

living too long in the world of the senses


eschato-logically naive and

onto-logically ignorant.


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