MANIC

little boat

a little boat
borne on waves so large
they are beyond the vessel's
simple imagination.
it can barely comprehend
how far the waves have taken it,
through days and nights
dictated by magenta fire,
painting the little boat's world
like a Romantic with lovefever,
dictated by golden light,
making the boat richer
than it ever wanted to be
in fleeting moments more precious
than all the light's clinking gold.

the waves are so huge,
like worlds of water,
cresting, falling, dipping, swirling.
despairing. hoping. exulting. spiraling.
the waves show the little boat
what it means
to feel.
to be alive, not merely living—
to be alive and unafraid of
the immense pain and courage
orchestrating the fall
in order to attain the heavenly joy
of the crest.

the little boat knows it is little;
every day, between the gold and brushstrokes
it sees how far the huge waves have taken it—
through galaxies.
the stars glitter closer to the little boat
than they ever had before.
the stars are huge;
the waves are like hands,
offering the boat to the stars,
as if to say,
"i have taken you as far as i can,
but your journey is not over.
the stars can bring you the rest of the way."

the little boat does not care about
reaching a destination.
the little boat wants to see the stars,
as big as they truly are,
and so the waves say goodbye
and the little boat floats off into
vast amounts of space,
endless stretching spinning careening
galaxies,
touching the stars.
the stars touching the boat.

and the boat is huge,
not because it wanted to be
or cared to be
but because it has come so far,
traveled through worlds unimaginable
in their beauty
and unimaginable in the boat's efforts
to see their beauty.
the boat is huge in the way
that the galaxies are huge:
they go on and on,
through time and space and circumstance,
and so will the boat,
because it can only continue to travel
ever onward,
ever forward,
into that great world of discovery
and those great galaxies of unknowns.