ABYSS - God of the Seas
- Feb 21
- 3 min read
Updated: Jun 15

Scene: A storm brews on the horizon. The sea is restless, waves lapping against the wooden hull of a small fishing boat. An old sailor, with a weathered face and eyes that have seen too much, leans against the mast. The young boatman, brash and dismissive, laughs as he tightens the sail.
Boatman: (Scoffing) Old man, you talk as if the sea is alive. It’s just water—wild, yes, but nothing more. We row, we sail, we master it.
Sailor: (Chuckles, shaking his head) Master it? You think your little oar or ragged sail commands the deep? Tell me, boy… do you know what breathes beneath?
Boatman: (Smirks) Air and fish, nothing more.
Sailor: (Gazes at the darkening waters) No, boy…
“Deep beneath the molten crust,
Where fire and pressure scream and rust,
Rests a force both vast and wise—
The God of Seas with slumbering eyes.”
Boatman: (Rolling his eyes) A myth to scare fools. Waves come from the wind, not some sleeping god!
Sailor: (Gravely) Wind? Wind may whisper to the waves, but tell me, when the winds die, why do the waves still roam?
“At Earth’s core, he sleeps so still,
Yet even dreams obey his will.
A gentle breath, a slow exhale,
And oceans rise with towering wails.”
(A large wave suddenly lifts the boat. The boatman grips the sides, uneasy but still unconvinced.)
Boatman: (Huffs, regaining balance) That proves nothing. It’s just the tide. The sea moves like this all the time!
Sailor: (Points to the water, his voice low but firm)
“A measured sigh, drawn deep within,
And tides retreat, the shores grow thin.
The world believes it owns the waves,
But they are gifts his slumber gave.”
Boatman: (Crosses his arms) So what? Even if some ‘god’ stirs the sea, it’s nothing I can’t handle.
Sailor: (Fixes him with a knowing gaze)
“For if his breath can wake the sea,
And toss the ships like autumn leaves,
What wrath would all his power weave,
If he should stir, should rise, should breathe?”
(The waves crash harder now. Lightning splits the sky. The young boatman tightens his grip, his knuckles white.)
Boatman: (Voice unsteady) Storm’s picking up… we should turn back.
Sailor: (Nods slowly)
“Would tsunamis stretch from pole to pole,
Would skies collapse, would thunder roll?
Would lands be drowned, the stars grow dim,
If Earth itself belonged to him?”
(The sea heaves as if alive, the boat lurching violently. The boatman gasps, staring wide-eyed at the black abyss below.)
Boatman: (Whispering now) …What if he wakes?
Sailor: (Places a steady hand on his shoulder) Then there will be no boat, no shore, no sky. Only water… and silence.
“So let him rest, oh restless tide,
For though you dance and leap with pride,
You are but whispers, soft and slight—
A fraction of his sleeping might.”
(The storm begins to subside, but the lesson lingers. The boatman, once arrogant, now watches the sea with newfound reverence. Slowly the waves settle, and for the first time, the boatman bows his head to the abyss, whispering a silent prayer to what lies beneath.)
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