There’s a scab formed over the healing,
Crusted, dark red with an itch.
There’s a tendency to pick at the edges
Which makes it a bit of a bitch
To recover from injuries, the wounded
Temper their healing with pain,
Returning to hurts once inflicted,
Reliving the moments again.
There’s a process that bodies afflicted
Must go through, that’s just how it goes,
Time and salve make the difference
Though time definite nobody knows.
Some fester from constant exposure,
Scab picked for the whole world to see,
Supurating, rancid, unhealing,
A neglect of the way it should be.
Treat it with unguents specific
To purpose, then leave well alone
Healing is slowed by the scratching
And picking right down to the bone.
scottishmomus 