With woods and a jacket, I am most alive
Like the names in iron graves: Gloucester, 1945.
Dozens flood in after many hundreds had before,
The waves keep crashing in from foamy crest to ocean floor.
Forevermore, the sailor's horn is for guiding ships to harbor
And friends are close as families are closer than no other.
Something I hadn't learned to love came above never too soon,
As from the vastness of the ocean had emerged an orange moon.
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