The boat.

There’s a boat skidding over some bloated black waves.
Who knows where it’s going,
I don’t even think it knows itself.
They hate me.
They love me.
But they are better off without me.
The clouds over head observe that little pond skater; indifferently,
That little pond skater,
See ya later,
Little pond skater,
I don’t remember ever seeing a shore in that direction.
Just more blackness.
More sea.
More waves.
And the sea pretends to be the sky,
And the sky seems convinced,
Like nobody thought about including the horizon,
Who’s going to separate these two?
These turbulent little boys,
Squabbling away.
See ya later,
Little pond skater.