In silent whispers of the flesh, they form, Lesions, shadows cast by pain and storm. A mark, a scar, where normal fades away, In tissue soft or bone, where they lay.
On skin they might arise, a crimson bloom, Or hidden deep within, a silent doom. From trauma's strike or illness' cruel design, They vary—small and benign, or malign.
Through lens of science, we peer within, Physical exams to see where they begin. Imaging paints their secret in the light, Biopsies confirm the nature of their plight.
Some watch and wait, a cautious guard we keep, While others call for scalpel’s patient sweep. In each, a story of the body’s strife, A testament to the fragility of life.
Yet hope persists in every line and scar, In treatment's varied paths, near and far. From observation's watchful, steady eye, To surgical hands that cut and tie.
In every lesion lies a tale profound, Of human form, its beauty and its wound. In healing’s quest, we seek to understand, The lesions' silent language, patient, grand.
