Upon the skin, a tender line, A fissure wrought with edges fine. No jagged tear, no brutal breach, A whisper soft, where scalpels reach.
Its margins smooth, like ocean’s flow, No rugged peaks, no scars to show. A canvas bare, of healing’s art, A measured cut, a perfect start.
No dirt resides, no chaos sown, No foreign seed in fibers grown. Its pristine edge, a tranquil shore, Awaiting closure, pain no more.
With hands that guide and needles glide, A union formed, no seams to hide. A suture’s thread, like silver's gleam, Restores the flesh, fulfills the dream.
Oh, wounds of jagged, ruthless form, Where chaos thrives, and storms conform. They beg for care, for hands that mend, For patience long, their fate to bend.
Yet here, this wound, a tale it tells, Of healing fast, where beauty dwells. Its edge, a boundary, clear and true, A testament to what hands can do.
So sing, oh wound, your quiet song, Of healing swift, of rights from wrong. For in your line, a future lies, Where pain subsides, and hope complies.
