It is my own body which gifts the fear
Rattled and riven with aches and pains
Too too self-absorbed to look outwards
And then the mind, or brain
Or whatever does the reasoning
Or whatever lacks it
Also caught up in a spiders web of treacle
Unable to comprehend, or even hear
Another’s divergent point of view
Yet with no desire to convene an argument
The first response is to clam up, to turn mute
And from that impenetrable place
How impossible is the search for a free spirit
How already defeated is the postulated idea
That one could simply wander and dream
The boots are in the trunk of the car
The desire for walking pretty half-hearted
Yet a way does need to be found
Otherwise the straight-jacket
Will not be released, the ability
To turn inwards will always dominate
So start reading the book of life again
And this time
Don’t skip the introduction
