When I'm reading, simple 80's pulp,
Not interacting with the inexplicable,
People and places I do not, cannot get,
Wrapped in a past, I can call my own.

Sensibilities change, subtle and great,
Left behind in the slumber of years,
Awakened to find myself alone, adrift,
With only the fading shores of memory,
Waiting for my craft to sunder and sink.

Connection a dream unreachable,
I pick up a book filled with yore,
Finding myself among friends,
As untouchable as I've become.

Awaiting our ignoble and unnoticed end,
I contentedly sigh, knowing in all the flux,
There's at least one thing we can count on,
That time and tide carry us all to final rest.