Whether this is real,
Or rather delusion,
I cherish the sight,
Of a maritime scene:
Toes digging, planting,
Under gritty shore.
Star-less mass,
Stretched overhead.
Upon an irate sea,
A galleon rocks,
Trying to fight this rage.
The scent of,
Before a storm;
Heavy moisture hints,
At an inevitable doom.
Water reflects the tendrils,
Bright white accompanied,
With a loud, crackling boom.
Ship faces away,
Horizon in view.
Attention not given,
To the streak that,
Broke the calmed crew.
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