My Poem: Hope is a Fisherman

I saw an engimatic message on a popular networking site. This was just after William Shatner's bongo performance on another site. I just had to write the following poem:

They say clarity is at the Jersey shore,
and if I were clarity, that’s where I’d hang out,
where Nature does her finest work.
But I’m not that sweetheart, Clarity.

So I’m going to Hokkaido.
That’s way up north (where hope lies, in the gospel of Sarah).
I know.
Hope lies there, and here, and everywhere—
the biggest, fattest, juiciest lies come out of Hope’s mouth.

She dangles them in front of you, and beckons you through doors
that weren’t there before.
You follow, and there’s another one, a lie so bright and shiny
you reach for it and fall flat on your face.
How cool is that? At least you fell forward.

Hope is a fisherman.
She trawls your heart and finds your secret wishes.
She wraps them in tinsel and calls out, “Here they are!”
You run like an idiot, to grab them back from her hot little hand,
to hide them safe in your heart where they belong.

Hope runs faster, around corners and up blind corridors and through
the mists that ordinarily you’d run from screaming.
You’re hot on her heels.
Hope is one step ahead of you, dangling the biggest lie of all.
“You can do this!”

“It can all be yours,”
she whispers seductively as you make one final lunge.

Guess what?
You’re there.
Hope was right, all along.