SICKNESS

I am he you call "ill health" Poverty stricken or not I prowl on all. I am that dog-rose that plunges darkness upon day. The disease you so revere but detest I am the story written painstaking in confinement in an ink you wish not your children upon pages of booty either recovered or plundered. I am that fellow that rocks your mind when you loose it Devoid of senses that are mine alone... Ending banished ones in the grave of oblivion Around all, I loom affectionately. Teaching many their life does not consist of their riches Have I alone,the first letters of my last five lines.