A Love Letter

All aboard this new kind of tension

With no written sender to mail

Or skipper plans to sail

And lack there-of normal motivation.

Reality only sunk in 17th hour

With truly psychotic mind

Or the rather sickly kind

Wish to meet no heaven's devour.

Anchor up weigh-ting hearts

The to-do list never grows short

Our ship kept in down-most cohort

With no regard to missing parts.

Down bad, to tell our own tale

Scraping ocean floor pink coral

Arriving milestones devoid of floral

Tattered love commanded against frail.

Anxiety, the sand is passing bone

Minds itch in could-be -- evermore

I beg you not hurl anchor ashore

Morse code never works -- pick up the phone.