In the realm where sight's tender grace resides, There blooms a tale of eyelids' gentle plight. Blepharitis, a name that softly hides, A malady veiled in shadows of night.
Upon the lashes' edge, where dreams do dwell, A whisper of inflammation takes hold, Red hues, swollen veils, a silent spell, Cast o'er eyes once bright, now turned to cold.
In discomfort's cloak, it finds its abode, Unsightly, yet a bearer of no shame. For vision's realm, it strikes a humble code, No permanent scar upon its name.
Symptoms myriad, aching and profound, Itchy, burning, tears that freely fall, Sensitivity to light, a world unbound, Where shadows dance and light's embrace does pall.
Flaking, crusting, greasy lids may meet, A gritty sand within the eye's embrace. Eyelashes, like withered autumn wheat, Bowing to fate, in silent, tear-stained grace.
A chorus sung by myriad unseen hands, Bacteria's dance, oil glands misfire. Allergies' whispers, where the iris stands, And rosacea's touch fans the fiery pyre.
Yet in the darkness, there lies a cure, A gentle touch, a tender, cleansing stream. Warm waters soothe, with purity pure, Easing the burden of the nightly dream.
A vigilant eye, a watchful gaze, To heed the wisdom of the healer's art. With treatment's hand, the malaise does graze, Guiding sight back from its shadowed heart.
Thus, in the gentle folds of twilight's call, Blepharitis finds its place, its part. A chapter writ in vision's grand thrall, A tale of eyes, a canvas of the heart.
