Dark and cold
New and old
There is no light,
And the bugs tend to bight.
We are not fun,
We hide from the sun.
We stalk the night,
Sending out fright.
From nine to five,
We dine on people’s lives.
Do not run, you cannot hide,
From our fast and powerful stride.
The flow of red,
Drips from the bed.
We can’t help but taste,
Using all our hast.
A wonderful smell,
That brought us from hell.
A bed and a box,
Without any locks.
The box is sealed,
Take a guess at what’s concealed
Is what shining real?