Butterflown Bruises

Brooding, ego blistered
hardly glancing, storming by;
dare a man cross path
better cross swords as well -
satisfaction extracted

Continued this splendid misery
adding mental fuel to imagined fires
concerned with justifying anger
not understanding why,
stamping sidewalk weeds in stride.

Mid-step: gold and black blur
flits under my chin, up above,
then down through the bushes
to me - transfixed, anger flown
past frail flapping filigree breeze.

Butterfly angel kisses my wound
recalls life's healing joy:
hold onto beauty cannot grasp
lest ego's claws crush your soul.
Lightly I skipped my way.