It bit

It healed

It's itchy not bleeding.

You fought

You yield

Your desperate

And pleading.

"Goodness my boy! you’re wrapped up in trouble!

Let me tend to that wound, take a knee by this rubble."

So you angled your limb and you opened your mind,

To a man who seemed simple, and honest,

And kind.

"It doesn’t hurt much but it itches instead,

Inconvenienced, annoyed, but at least I'm not dead."

Then the man raised his brow not just due to his nature,

But to insert his talent,

For filling in craters.

"It may start with an itch that then turns to a sore,

To a lesion, 

To a wound,

And then complicates more."

You anesthetize kneeling by falling to sit,

'Has this man got a point? or is he full of shit?'

"Now your wound starts to fester and lands you in bed,

The doctors will say ' I’m amazed he's not dead!'

Then they study and analyze,

Reference their text..."

And you cant help but wonder:

'Holy shit, what comes next?'

Now this man need not finish to sell you his solve,

Curios fear will un-hinge your resolve.

In the palm of his hand you will find yourself dead,

While he writes down the thoughts

That he's put in your head.

You cant help but wonder

And you still cant remember,

Why this question was posed,

And why you surrendered.