Wicked Is the Pain of Arthritis

Wicked Is the Pain of Arthritis

Wicked is the pain that creeps in silence,

It waits until the house is still,

Then curls its claws around the fingers,

And bends the bones against the will.

It comes with rain, it loves the morning,

It hides in every sudden move,

And though the body begs for mercy,

The ache has nothing left to prove.

The kettle hums, the chair is waiting,

A gentle fight to stand again,

Each motion small, each breath uncertain,

A quiet prayer against the strain.

There was a time for dancing freely,

For lifting life with easy grace,

But now each day is carved with effort,

Each hour etched upon the face.

Still there’s laughter through the hurting,

Still there’s courage in the eyes,

A stubborn soul defying thunder,

That aches yet never truly cries.

Wicked is the pain, yet deep beneath,

A stronger heart refuses rest,

And though the bones may twist and tremble,

The spirit burns within the chest.

For age will never steal the beauty,

That glows within a steady flame,

Each line, each scar, each quiet battle,

A story pain could never claim.