In sickness, and sickness

Dark fear crackling
at the edges.
Dissolving my sense
of time and place.
My cells are exploding
from sickness, and
the hard pan lies
you have told.
Where is the green
tea when I need it?

Not with your Doctors,
cut-bare to the bone.
The truth is mine.
Some flags raised.
Some flags down.

How passionate
those loving hands,
that came to me.
No longer a bruised
and beaten slave.
But a butterfly,
filled with beauty
and delight.
Sad conclusions
are foregone.
For a day in the sun,
and an imperfect
break in life.

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