My Compulsive Visitor Poem by Lindsey Wolf

There is a man dressed in black, disguising his face.
He often vacations in the misery of humans,
delivering his envelopes at night, decoyed in red lace.

He hides his face for he is too much a coward to reveal
his black eyes, faces, causes and cures.
He fears the survivors and kin of those who's hearts he steals.

He visited me once when I was only a child,
crawling through the darkness where supplement he sought.
Capturing a heart of a lion that had never been wild.

Yet, I was too young to truly understand
all the man had stolen from me,
so I never took a stand.

In my teens he came again.
So young and so fragile,
when he took just because he can.

It was only then that I saw the man's threat
wishing to strip me bare for those of which I care.
For him to strike again I could not let.

On the eve of adulthood, he knocked once more.
Thirsty for the thrice dip of the pot,
breaking through my already shattered home and door.

He refused to be seated, refused to be defeated.
Moving his stature of skin and bones into the house,
speaking of a personality that needed flesh to feed it.

It was then that I dropped to my knees,
pleading at her bedside, feeling to inches big,
while crying 'Please cancer, do not take another from me.'