Rock To Sphere

His beauty is polished and trimmed,

refined to a perfect sphere.

No longer the sharpe edges once able to stab

but the dull to the touch sphere now felt.

The world is robbed of his orginal form. 

The truama and reslince passed down by his mother.

The bruises and scars carved by his father.

All sanded down to be smooth through his one wish

Sadly the man used his wish to change. 

Change he did, stealing the raw perfect him.

He's now unblemished and recognizable.

The "perfect" skin hides the truth.

The truth that the rocky sharpe him is still him. 

The old beauty was the one I loved. 

One I'd spend hours tracing the scars.

One I'd kiss the bruises til they faded.

Hoping I'd create new memories to comfort the pain.