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.