The bugs, they run,

Sucking the blood of the sleeping,

Hollow bodies on a wooden bed of splintered woes.

So it goes,

The illness takes the weakest

Then one by one the others fall like dominoes.

Survivors don’t win

They get to strive and work and not become free.

Up, hammer, drag, till they die.

Tossed into a pit

By their slightly stronger ‘friends’.

(My poetry collection, ‘My Heart, The Rocket’ available now via Amazon)