Far below the waves,
Swaying to the current of the ocean,
Dragging men to watery graves
Without the slightest of emotion.

The tentacles would rise up high,
To ensnare a small boat,
For the men are doomed to die,
And not a sound escapes their throats.

Past flashing fish in shoals,
Coral latched onto stones,
The kraken hauls down the lost souls,
Down, down, down to Davy Jones.

Until it withers and shrinks from age,
And washes upon the sand,
It gets trapped inside a cage,
Of my warm, soft hand.