Blank

I've drawn a blank, but I'll go on:
The search for truth begins this way,
And while you think of things to say
That tell too little, time is gone
And you've said nothing. Your face shone
With effort, as you tried to pray,
But in the end, your cheeks were grey
And puffed out, stifling a yawn.

What was it you were telling me?
Some rigmarole concerning fear,
The unappealing atmosphere,
An overactive memory,
Or something fine about the sea?
I've drawn a blank, so I'll stop here.