This message may not reach its destination,

Nor even, I fear, may it leave this room.

Lumber cries in protest, the last acts of a glorious life,

Full of salt and wind and the closeness of crustacean embrace.

This message may not reach its destination,

Even though my hand flies furiously over the page,

For it is coming.

I have hidden from the uninvited, I have cowered in suffocating terror,

No more salt left to contribute.

It is coming.

Verdant leaves, sun beaming through the canopy,

In amber clad we trekked.

In ignorance did we return.

I cannot alter the course myself. A missile of timber, canvas, and rope,

Bearing this cargo.

This was meant to be a warning, but I see now perhaps is a confession.

An apology.

There is no stopping.

My hand trembles so fiercely,

This meager blade I cannot hold still,

Even to its pathetic purpose.

It is coming.

I am sorry.

It is coming.

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