I blanch upon the shore, beneath
A raging sun; before me salt,
A briny water; also death
In prospect, as I fail for breath.
So long it was since I had halt,
Hiatus to austerity
The which I practice; not my fault
Works not support what words exalt.
’Tis much of man’s hypocrisy
Has set the stage, whereby, as lost,
I lose what hopes once bolstered me,
Ingenuous futile devilry.
Embarked I knowing not the cost,
As on the storm I cut my teeth,
Yet older now, still tempest-tossed,
I find the least ambition crossed.