An itch that whispers softly in the night, A phantom touch that stirs beneath the skin, A dance of nerves that teases, takes delight, And bids the restless fingers to begin.
Eczema’s blush, a flush of crimson flame, A chronic torment, flaring, then subdued, Psoriasis, with silver scales, lays claim, A patchwork quilt of suffering renewed.
The liver’s cry, a signal deep within, A warning of the jaundiced bile’s sway, Kidneys falter, and the skin grows thin, As itching heralds troubles on the way.
Allergic storms, from foods or pills that bind, In secret wars against the body’s peace, And fungal foes, with stealthy webs entwined, Or scabies’ burrowed paths that never cease.
The mind can play its tricks, a cunning foe, With stress and worry, itching to explore, Anxiety, in silent whispers, sows A field of phantom itches evermore.
Yet nature’s whims, the sun, the wind, the bite Of insects, or the dryness of the air, Conspire to bring discomfort to the night, And leave the skin with burning need laid bare.
To quell the itch, one must the cause reveal, With lotions, potions, remedies applied, Or deeper still, the hidden wounds to heal, And seek the root where all discomforts hide.
So heed the signs the itching skin bestows, For in its scratch, a deeper story flows.
