The process of drowning

The process of drowning                                                                                     
 
A riptide is sweeping me inexorably out to sea.
If there’s a path, it’s leagues below my feet.
 
Any maneuverability I have is for keeping
my head above water, to view the ocean’s workings 
 
until I irrevocably become a part of it.
No strategies from this distance, not with my feebleness
 
against the pull and strength of the tide.
Eventually, I’ll be far enough from shore
 
to no longer lament or even remember
the dusty travails of the path, far enough
 
to become helpless and hopeless, apply myself
seriously to the process of drowning.
 
O child of God, you stroll the water’s edge
and dream of its roaring dominion.