by Matt “Doc” King
Cold with no covers trying to stop the night sweats
Demon and angel on my shoulder laughing, taking bets
How long will he sleep? How will he awake?
Silently sitting up or with a violent quake?
Now it’s toss and turn, trying to quiet them
The moaning resembling an old time choir hymn
Eyelids flutter; hands clench tight
To sheets now soaked, drenched with fright
It’s not a scary movie that haunts the sleep
Nor is it sickness that makes my pores weep
There’s never an end, at least I’m told
By the ones who went first and now are old