Upon the skin, a tale is traced, A mark that lingers, cannot be erased. In healing’s grasp, it takes its form, A scar that rises, beyond the norm.
With each new day, the wound may fade, But this scar remains, a memory made. It’s red or pink, a vivid hue, A story told in shades of blue.
Confined it is, within its bounds, Yet in its height, the pain resounds. It itches, aches, reminds of then, The time when skin was broken, when.
No keloid’s reach does it aspire, For this scar’s limits don’t conspire. It holds its place, though time may pass, A raised relief, a troubled glass.
From injury’s hand, it came to be, A testament to history. Too much collagen, the body’s reply, A scar that touches earth and sky.
Yet hope resides in tender care, With creams and sheets, a gentle flare. Injections soothe, and lasers burn, To help the skin its smoothness earn.
Though raised it stands, it may descend, With time, its harshness might amend. A scar, though marked, is not the end, But a journey’s note, a wound’s best friend.
