Cancer Poem by Saint Cynosure

The winter wind delivers chill,
but I do so much better.
Rain can soak a man but still
by fear I make him wetter.
I'm the curse thats on your head,
the weight inside your pocket.
And the chains that bind your soul for feed,
I'm the key and I'm the locket.
Questions for the days of past,
after breath is gone.
Answers that are answered last,
are truthful never wrong.
There is no secrete to my worth,
I'm a priceless piece of treasure.
The size that kills is never what,
all of man can measure.
Just like shadows on the wall,
sweet silhouette the dancer.
The gift that life does give us all,
the body full of cancer.