The ocean does not know of her true power. She does not know of her strength, nor of her own majesty. She does not know of her calm seas, seasonal storms, or of her raging swells that blindly shelter jagged rocks. She deaf to the song sung as sporadic wind rushes over a forgotten and beaten shore, including all that is exposed as the waves draw back, leaving the multitude of bubbles to burst periodically in an audible crackle.
Tangles of seaweed and fine sand littered with occasional, forgotten remnants of ancient gems and stones. Spat up long ago from the earth and then abandoned, they are still there to this day, catching in the last of suns dying light as the ocean hesitantly reveals her treasures, in the off-beat rhythm of her infinite, and sometimes distant touches.
All these things and more are served evenly to those who grace her ever shifting waters, for those unwittingly captured by awe and fool enough to tempt her cold indifference, if only to be swept with an unexpected pull into her insubstantial and yet, final embrace.
Incomplete and tired. A work in progress, soon to be finished.