The Patriot

I sit about this frail shell of flight,
this damaged hull of dreams,
called the, Jupiter 2,
my curse, my pox of patriotism's chore,
the myth of space glory,
which I, Dr. Zachary Taylor, devotedly dispelled.

All to spare mankind
any illusion of false hope,
that our enemies plotted
when sending this craft
and the Robinson Family,
to some distance planet in the vain fantasy,
life could find a genesis of existence
beyond earth's womb.

My environmental erudition
and skill in intergalactic psychology
knew how this voyage was cursed,
for man has too many demons,
a countless throng of paranoia's phantom pariah
who will all be unleashed
during the sojourn into darkness.

In mercy, I prodded the leaders to rethink this cruel venture,
only wanting to spare this crew
from the horror I knew would await,
but then when it was beyond my control,
I planned a sabotage to make their end merciful.

Fate made a different choice,
leaving me to watch over their souls,
now I am guardian,
forced to pay the price for my compassion,
every act of love and each deed of mercy,
reviled with mistrust.
But I am content to wave the flag of my faith in silence,
teaching them through my misunderstood behaviors,
to survival's enlightenment.