In shadows deep, beneath the skin's veil, A silent storm brews, a mysterious tale, Where pain takes root and whispers swell, Pyoderma's grip, a relentless knell.
Not born of infection, this enigma's trace, Yet its presence unfolds, a cruel embrace, Ulcerations bloom, a sinister sight, From humble bumps to wounds of fright.
Linked to the gut, where troubles often lie, Or joints that ache with every step they take, In blood and bone, the hidden foes may spy, Their presence felt in every sore and ache.
The skin, a canvas of purple and red, Where fire and ache in tandem spread, Lesions dance with an undermined grace, A silent battle on this tender place.
Inflammation roars, a raging tide, Where flesh meets fire, no respite to hide, Linked with woes that reach beyond, Inflammatory echoes, a haunting bond.
Amidst the chaos, a diagnosis sought, A puzzle unmasked, a truth dearly bought, Through clinical eyes, the signs align, Pyoderma's mark, a story defined.
Treatment's art, a tapestry woven, With immunosuppressants to soften the motion, Healing hands and vigilant minds, Guiding light where hope binds.
Pyoderma gangrenosum, an unwelcome guest, Yet warriors rise at its behest, In the realm of skin, where mysteries creep, Knowledge's shield, a vigil to keep.
