Upon my cheeks, a tender blush,
Rosacea’s mark, a gentle hush,
A chronic tale of red display,
In central face, it finds its way.
With vessels bright, like crimson lace,
A map of pain across the face,
Small bumps arise, with pus-filled core,
A landscape tender, ever sore.
The eyes, they too, are often dry,
Irritation, red to spy,
Lids that swell and tears that sting,
Ocular woes, this ailment brings.
The nose may grow in size and shape,
A rare but poignant facial scrape,
Rhinophyma, it is called,
A visage altered, and appalled.
The cause unknown, a mystery blend,
Of genes and triggers that offend,
Hot drinks, the sun, emotions high,
All join to paint this rosy dye.
Fair skin of Celtic, Nordic lines,
Between thirty and fifty, signs,
Women often bear the strain,
Yet men, severe, may feel the pain.
No single test to name this plight,
A doctor’s eye, a careful sight,
To rule out lupus, eczema’s shade,
A thorough check must be made.
No cure, but treatments do abound,
Topicals, pills, and lasers found,
To soothe the red, reduce the swell,
To help the skin regain its quell.
Avoid the triggers, guard with care,
Sunscreen daily, gentle fare,
Follow-ups to track the trend,
A blend of treatments to defend.
So here we stand, with face aglow,
A chronic path that we must know,
With mindful care and tender grace,
We manage rosacea’s embrace.
