Neath waves which churn the air above my head
I sense the depth twixt here and ocean floor
No sooner doth the swell increase one’s dread
Than riptide carries farther out from shore
Whilst drifting off may lend oneself to sleep
Tis taking breath; pre-empts a last goodbye
Consigned (as Davy Jones) unto the deep
Enveloped in this sea of blue, am I
Such circumstance portrays a sorry plight
Near end of line, considered now fish bait
Immersed as form within refracted light
Where flailing arms would surely seal my fate
Espying tell-tale sign of dorsal fin
I Pray to ‘Rod’ above please reel me in

PS. Forgive me Lord.