A small rebellion on the skin,
A tale of where the virus has been.
From hands to soles, it makes its claim,
A quiet presence without much fame.
Rough and grainy, the common’s form,
On fingers and nails, a standard norm.
A cauliflower crest it dares to wear,
A mark of time and a body’s care.
On weary feet, the plantar thrives,
A burden borne where walking strives.
Flat and inward, with dots of black,
It whispers pain on every track.
Flat warts gather in subtle disguise,
Clusters of smoothness that quietly lie.
On face or hand, they make their home,
Unseen warriors where they roam.
Filiform’s threads, like whispers they cling,
Around the mouth, a peculiar ring.
Long and thin, with a delicate trace,
An artist’s etching on a tender face.
Genital warts, with a softer hue,
In places private, they bid adieu.
Through contact shared, their journey’s clear,
A reminder of closeness, both far and near.
Born of HPV, their lineage runs,
Through life’s small breaks, their course begun.
Though harmless they stand, they carry a weight,
A story of the skin, of chance, of fate.
Salicylic acid, a soldier’s balm,
Or cryotherapy’s icy calm.
In time, they fade, as seasons pass,
A lesson etched in the skin’s vast glass.
Though warts may come, they’re seldom dire,
A fleeting mark, a moment’s fire.
In nature’s dance, they play their part,
A humble ode to the body’s art.
