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.