The fever came and started slow.
Only to end with the falling slow.
It started August 17, 1793.
It ended in December with the same memory.
This disease took the lives of many families.
It couldn’t be stopped even with the many remedies.
The town of Philadelphia no longer existed.
Except quiet allies and the crying that persisted.
Tears fell, while the bodies piled.
Everyone ran if only for a mile.
All the faces on the people were red.
Their eyes were swollen and nothing was said.
Robbers came into the houses of others.
They stole what wasn’t theirs from children without mothers.
People were running from the pain and sadness.
In hopes of forgetting and to stop all the madness.
Children without parents were running the streets.
With no place to stay and nothing to eat.
The strong people that were well enough to walk.
Helped the weak that were not well enough to talk.
The lost, the lonely, and the afraid.
Had no place to go and were too sick to stay
The ones still alive lived with the pain.
With the memory of the happening, and the time that it came.
It took their friends, sisters, and brothers.
Made them fear life, and the voices of others.
This is the fever that overtook a city.
Destroyed many lives and left others with pity.
The fever came without a limit.
Now it’s silent, if only for a minute.
This post was submitted by ashlee mefferd.Email This Poem To Your Friend