One thousand leagues beneath the waves, darkness envelops all. A chance to peek above the breach, grasp both handles when you reach.

Left behind on sandy shore, Washed away by hungry wave, Sought by hunters far and wide, To track beleaguered prey We all have one of carbon, Though not made of soot, And this particular example, Is not made with a boot

A sanctuary of solitude, where whispers echo and stress finds pause. A small oasis when nature calls, offering privacy without applause.

Some blame onions, some blame grief, some find me born from sweet relief. Though causes differ far and wide, tears are the tracks I leave behind.

I stand up tall but never roam, a quiet guard of harvest home. I keep what’s grown yet never eat, I store the gold you cannot meet. My name sounds like I stand alone, yet I am filled when crops are grown. Empty or full, I always wait, a rural tower that feeds your fate.