On the ship of self we're riding
Somewhere we do not know;
We tip the doorman, pay the driver,
The wheels begin to roll;

Past scenery drear and lovely,
Past clouds and oceans all;
Till everything is featureless,
Beneath a darkened pall.

Still many miles we're riding,
As to the end, we must;
Unsure of where we're headed,
We must rely on trust.

At last the rolling ceases,
The doors are opened slow-
We find we never left at all;
The journey's in the soul.