The Unfinished Dream Poem by Ian Effendi

I have strewn you, the listener, a tale of the ages, Sung from an old bard - no wizards nor mages.
And last but not least, I envy your youth, As I know that you still will vie for the truth:

The harsh, heavy water tossed upon the brig, Rattled the bars of the lonely prisoner’s cell.
Kindled flames were moaning from above, And Locke was locked in his slowly growing hell.

Two sailors, Locus and Barry, pitied the old fool, Leaving him on the old ship was nothing they could do.
And so the pair heaved him off of his cold, broken stool – The rusted iron shackles were the only things Locke knew were true.

For then they were lucky, and as they made it to the icy shore,
They dropped on their knees; not three men, but four.

The captain, like all men, did not want to die. Glory on the battlefield was not for this man.
As soon as the opportunity to fly, was true and right, Gillbit left, he ran.

Adjusting their view they had nowhere to go. A wide range of white mountains, beautiful, 'tis true.
In front of them, only cold wind and tumultuous snow. Behind them, seas that were angry and a steamy dark hue.

Locus caught sight of a snowy, green forest, a laugh to the three others who didn't believe.
They followed his ideas, Gillbit gave orders, and their bodies had weakened starting to grieve.

With no food to sustain them, or ambrosia remaining, hunger and thirst were only complaining.
The heat their bodies were not containing, the four soon found their lives waning.

Death met them in that forest, alone with only each other, an obituary penned by the last survivor lived on.
Locke's last thoughts were that of his mother, and it was a crew sent by another that dreadfully stumbled upon them at dawn.

Here lies the four men, not lonely nor alive, Locus and Barry, Gillibit and Locke.
Our story is not great, together we thrive, and so we ask to amend us with thought.
The pitying sailor and penniless marine, the corporal captain and the man with an unfinished dream.