[poem] losing battle of wits

[spirit_ventures]

The bites
Oh, how they itch!
and multiply day by day
or, more precisely,
night by night,
in the sinister cloak of darkness.
Sleep is fitful, finicky.
Mood is low, illogical.
The body itches
crying for relief
that may be a long time coming.
This uncertainty
eats away at the soul.
Hoping for an end.