A thief, unlike the ones we knew,
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,
Cherished memories, loved ones smiles,
Our treasure trove 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.
A poem from