I wrote this with the objective of using metaphors in a new
way. It's a little rough, but then again, there's always room to improve.
A boy once told me a story,
Of how his toy spaceman had come to life.
How this plastic figurine was real as could be,
And how they ventured into the unknown.
They passed stars on the way to the moon,
Which was perfectly crescent and edible.
He told me, in detail, how down on his knees,
He ate a delicious lunch of moon-cheese.
When the moon became boring, they climbed in the ship,
And pressed shiny red buttons, to take off once again.
As the vessel took off at unbelievable speeds,
The moon seemed to smile good bye.
The boy went on to tell me of the eight separate landings,
And how each planet offered new joys.
The story he told me sounded so sincere,
I forgot for a moment that it was impossible.
He held up his toy spaceman, with an innocent smile,
He told me that I could play with him for a while.
I graciously thanked him, I do encourage sharing,
And I held the plastic figurine in my hands.
As I pondered the tale just been told to me,
And turned the toy o'er in my hands,
I thought of the stars, the celestial bodies,
And wondered why I couldn't go too.
I knew in my heart, the boy's yarn was made-up,
But he told it as if it were fact!
The moon, made of cheese? As cliche as can be.
But to a boy so young, what else could the moon be?
An iron core and geosynchronous orbit
wouldn't mean a wink to this child. But,
Tell him that if he were ever to visit, he could eat it?
And you've got a disciple, instantly.
But I know a sad truth, when this boy grew in years,
He learned to forget. The journey he took became
Something from his imagination, something passed.
A fond childhood memory; a game, not a fact.
And the saddest of all, is he'll never return. He turned in
his space-travelling badge. This story that was told to me,
ten years ago, was the story that I told myself. I believed in it
then, but now I know, that I'm stuck on this planet forever.