Every day I go up and down, caressing the brittle
deposition. 
The rocks, the shells smooth over, and I kiss the sweet
horizon with the sky and a never ending secret. 
I hold beneath me the biggest secrets to ever come about.
No form of vanity is accustomed to my ways,
And the silky touch of the salt being lapped up into my
white form is over rapturing.
I dream of the warmth of that hemisphere in which encircles
my thoughts. 
I long.
I control.
I pass.
Back up and back down,
The pleasure of the reach of my hand,
To touch even the slightest essence of youth,
And with a forceful yank I smoothly return to my calming,
with a handful of treasures,
Soon to be devoured and spat back out by the devil himself
-Poseidon-the cracken? 
But what are myths but accounts, and what are those but
unheard secrets,
And those secrets are some of a fountain.