This one’s for you.
The driftwood messiah on your journey, braving against the elements.
You were built with bare hands, under scorching sun, sweat on brow.
You were built in honor of dreams and hopes of going somewhere, seeing things, touching them and hopefully, claiming them.
You’re a conqueror’s swan song. You’re that last standing ovation before the curtain call.
Driftwood. Rope. Cloth. Heart. Ingredients for an Opus.
You set sail bravely knowing only that you must go far. Far away from naysayers.
A poorly built vessel put together by left hands that were fueled by big hearts.
Maiden Voyage.
Wind in your sails. The wood creaks. All hands on deck. Hopeful eyes. Tears of joy. fanfare. Celebration.
The sun rises to a new day. It’s a brave new world out there.
A brown speckle bathed in blue.
Days fade into one and other. Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months. Hope has been reduced to famine and thirst. Reduced to mutiny and distrust.
Cheers and songs of hope and adventure, reduced to whispers and murmurs in the night. Plans of overtaking the ship and turning back. Plans of murder.
Sails that flew in the wind like a flock of albatross banned together to guide brave souls to a new home. Now reduced to shreds. From riches to rags.
The moral is down.
The maiden has not budged from her post. She still looks ahead with optimism. She stands for something, and her beliefs are still firmly rooted in this cause.
She symbolizes hope, fertility, growth, strength. She is all that was lost.
She is a feral fire burning deep within the polar fist.
A crippled orphan lost in a crowd. Extended arms and eager fingers.
Misery sure loves its company.
She carries on alone.
Behind the black velvet curtain, through the holes eaten by moths, God looks down on them. The ever watchful eye.
They crash into the shore. Men awoken from nightmares, at once reminded that they are living the nightmare, subsequently corrected to find the nightmare is over.
A new world is laid before them. Tired feet, that have been shuffling for weeks, sprinting.
Celebration. Old cobwebs are knocked from their perches. Windows are opened. Voices are heard. Stomping of feet like jungle drums in the night.
History books now converted to crystal balls.
Calloused hands now create.
Crippled crow, now dancing in the dead of night.
Blind eyes see what we cannot.
Moths gather around fires.
The Maiden believes in persistence. And disbelieves in the frailties of mortality.
She believes in perseverance. She believes in conquering odds. She believes in a God that has turned His back.
She believed in a crew that had a pulse but were for all intents and purposes dead.
Despite short comings, doubts, forces of nature, wrath of God and fear of the Devil. She overcame.
We are home.
Maiden, though you may be far from home, know that you are not alone.
For as long as the feral fire is lit, you have no reason to doubt, no reason to quit.
Sail the seven seas with your head up high, made for sailing, yet you fly.
Oh dear Maiden, Maiden o’ mine, help me leave this place behind.
Oh fine Maiden, Maiden true, I will cross vast oceans for you.
