At first, a touch—so light, so small,
Yet soon, red lines begin to sprawl.
Because the skin, so quick to heed,
Responds to touch with urgent speed.
Then, as if by magic bright,
The welts arise in streaks of white.
Meanwhile, a fiery itch takes hold,
A tale upon the skin is told.
Soon enough, the marks will fade,
Yet for a time, they seem well laid.
Although they vanish, still they show
The body’s surge, the histamine flow.
Furthermore, the cause is plain,
A system armed to guard in vain.
Despite the fact it means no harm,
It startles still—a strange alarm.
Thus, no cure need be applied,
Unless the itch won’t subside.
Instead, a pill can ease the sting,
So skin may rest from what it brings.
All in all, it’s quite a sight,
A fleeting script in skin’s own light.
Nevertheless, the marks won’t last,
Like whispered words, they soon drift past.
