THE BOOK THAT NEVER LEFT PORT
(A Sad Adventure in Three Parts)

PART I - SIGNING ON
We crack the cover and flip to page one, our eyes all a-gleam
To sail a sea of words that will reveal another's deep-held dream
And swim a new chop of thoughts, ideas and freshly revealed facts.
We'll visit places we've never seen, to bear witness to surprising acts
And ride the waves to adventure, escape, peaceful love, hateful strife.
We'll fish the depths of these alien waters for new meanings in our life.

The builder of our ship, it has been hinted and promised and told,
Is a master craftsman every bit as skillful as he is precociously bold.
So we put our life on hold, snug ourselves down and cork up our ears
To find new friends and enemies like none we've met through our years.
Tingling with terrible deeds and deaths and destructions awaiting our eyes,
We yearn to be jostled by strangers that live with four moons in their skies.

PART II - BOARDING
With boisterous glee, we'll chain ourselves to a mind that is not our own
And delve into plans and maneuvers and outcomes we've never known.
We'll be voyeurs on seas of new learnings and things hard to conceive,
Sailing the winds of that other's imagination we will learn to believe
As we roam the universe from the beginnings to the ends of eternity.
Like Gods we will be mute though we hear, invisible though we see.

The lands won't be ours, so we may trample them heedless of their laws.
We'll be lords and ladies beyond reproach, responsibility or cause.
We'll have masterly guidance on uncharted waters and rights-of-way,
To be safe and secured, though turmoil might grow and conditions decay.
This was warranted to tease us into leaving home and loved ones behind,
To set out for these roads not paved with the trite, the tired or the tried.

PART III - SETTING SAIL
Our hum-drum luggage down below, we climb topside to take in the view.
Reality drifts away as we scan over the bowsprit for sights entirely new.
There on the horizon, it appears - a fresh experience - a vicarious thrill.
It gleams like silver and glows like gold — we draw closer and closer still.
Until we see all that gleams is not silver, all that glows is not gold.
It's but a garbage scow full of unoriginal trash, hot coffee gone cold.


The stench knocks us back as the oil-slicked water around the craft
Oozes out to sea, leaving this sad mirage in harbor muck, fore and aft.
Clouds dim the sun, darkening our adventure which had hardly begun.
We are immersed in a forlorn mist, neither new nor exciting nor fun.
Before us lies a tired tramp steamer, a weathered whore with no face.
With slow sadness we close up the book, not bothering to mark our place.