Tide is high

Nervously I wait for noon to approach sudden as a roar
Drinking sublime from the green aching cup
Shakes and nausea are approaching in waves upon my brow
I shudder against the tide and saline spray on my bow
Neither living but not quite floundering up to be drown
Another place bringing on a sense that doom belongs
Have I risked all for naught but a rough passage?
At 11am I feel plainly that my manner has led me hence.
Chance must deliver a remittance and a swagger
Change is the order of the day.

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