The Inner Child has shrivelled

The inner child has shrivelled like a palmate leaf set on fire by the gardener and is burning within.
I feel it always, slow burn, tears dry when they should be wet; falling upon Loves shoulders.

Did you see an inner child running, running through the streets of London on fire?
Did you follow him back into the dark oracle cave womb of the inner mind heart dream?
Carrying Piccadilly’s Eros statue
Carrying Nelson’s column and the four lions
Carrying a sack full of Prince Albert’s on horseback
Carrying ancient Charing Cross
His family now, his friends are those stones
(Spit on the Elgin marbles, send them back to Homer’s cradle, replace them all with lead imitations of Cadbury Tins and comic book superheroes, for Britain had an empire too).

No, I didn’t see an inner child running through the streets of London in the winter rain chasing the shadows of dancing bears followed by winged white turtles in black Victorian suits.
No, I didn’t see an inner child who crossed himself with a sword and became an optical illusion of endless depth.
No, I didn’t see an inner child wander lost through the streets of London stealing the light from all the windows of town and feasting on them.
No, I didn’t see an inner child clinging to the tomb of the unknown orphaned mother of England.

In this prose-poem, the inner child is the core component of the adult, if society grows to be too centred on being grown-up can that society be whole.
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