A wound once closed, yet not at rest,
A scar that swells beyond its nest.
A whispered trace, now bold and bright,
A silent bloom in crimson light.
It rises thick, it stretches wide,
A stubborn ridge that will not hide.
Not bound by cuts nor time’s embrace,
It carves its own expanding space.
A memory stitched in flesh so deep,
A history the skin must keep.
A map of wounds, a tale retold,
A whisper warm, yet firm and bold.
It itches, pulls, and sometimes stings,
A tether tight on unseen strings.
A mark that will not fade away,
That time and touch cannot allay.
The blade returns, but leaves behind
A deeper print, a fate unkind.
Cold lasers flash, the serums flow,
Yet still it rises, still it grows.
But though it lingers, thick and bright,
It tells a tale of strength, not blight.
For every ridge and scar you see
Is proof of life’s tenacity.
