Mapped in Purple

Swirls bloom beneath the sleeve,

a crooked purple web to grieve.

Pressed soft against cracked leather,

telling stories no one gathers.

He won’t speak, the silence loud,

but colors speak beneath the shroud.

Mottled poems on pale skin,

a tale of battles lost within.

Each shade a whispered bruise,

a place where pain and pride fuse.

Fingers trace what eyes avoid,

a map of wounds, carefully deployed.

The room leans in with quiet doubt,

but the colors speak without shout.

Healed not yet, just hiding pain,

a language written in a stain.