A thief, unlike another day,
Has come to steal our treasures,
Satanic, vicious, cunning, cruel,
Our precious life his prey.
At night this burglar comes by stealth,
To plunder life’s collection,
Reason, memories, loved ones smiles,
A treasure throve of wealth.
A squatter now, ensconced within,
Intent on slash and burning,
With sharpened blade and lethal scythe,
His harvesting begin.
Around the headlands, back and side,
Cuts clear the evil reaper,
Relentless in his devious task,
No place to run or hide.
This fertile land, this field of gold
Now desolate and barren,
A derelict and blighted ruin,
Vacant, empty, cold.
This devil playing his evil game,
This heartless, cruel brain robber,
Is now well known, but still rides free.
Al Zheimer’s is his name.
* * *
IRELAND - MALTA - TRAVEL 
How strange it is to find that for all the progress we have made across the years, the same evil visitors wait, ready to plunder the weakened and the lame. The only way to finally defeat them, I believe, is by self-determination. It is so much better to call time at one’s own chosen moment than to await being dragged under by the scavengers of death. Sombre thoughts, sorry. Excellent poem, though.
Thanks Frederick. This is a little thought I wrote this morning between 3 & 5 am in a rare pensive moment. Must have got it in my sleep. Your enlightened contribution is much appreciated. Paddy.