All of my poems have had addressees lately
so it seem only fair, if the words come not,
it can only be that the postman of my subconscious
is either lost or drowning in that mailroom of thought.
And at one time there was a message to be carried here
but at present, its subject has been forgot;
at one time we had everything to fear (or so I fear)
— how then do these musty words worry not: “Worry not” ?