The Butterfly

How quickly
vanity will undo a man
sitting in an outpatient ward,
his, no minor ills
yet feeling worse
for the treatment
than its need.

Aware the ticking of the clock,
exchange of amiable words -
they never wear solid colors
in oncology,
always gaier prints
and smiles set
against hopeful eyes.

Apprehensions and myths
must be unravelled,
even thoughts deciphered,
delusions dislodged;
so many stories of survivors,
and remembrances of those gone.

The butterfly
has no consciousness of fear,
and sparrows dart without tear.
To man alone,
God's ultimate created,
is the grimness of the grave known.
Yet, there remains on my lips
a boatload of gold,
while I am found, too,
in the shadow of my tears.