Tightrope Walking

I make a rushed appointment with the Ghost.
These scheduled haunts: dispassionate, absurd,
But still I daren’t renege upon my word,
And break our strange engagement at the coast.
He whispers promises of sweet repose;
Baptismal seas, black waters yet to be explored
I run, no longer resolutely bored,
To Land’s Demise, the beach where He plays host.
Once there, I rush to greet my spectral guide
And much to my dismay I find Him gone!
But: “Further in! Still further in!” He cries.
I dive to where I heard His murmur rise,
And chase it till, exhausted, I sink down
And there I find the sleep for which I’d pined.