Beneath the skin, a layer lies, Hidden from our naked eyes, The subcutaneous tissue, soft and deep, In silent work, its vigil keeps.
A cushion made of fat and thread, Where warmth is held and fears are shed, It cradles organs, shields the bone, A quiet guard, yet not alone.
With vessels coursing, nerves entwined, It whispers life through every line, The lymph flows gently, clear and slow, Supporting skin, its strength below.
It stores the energy we need, And bends to every move or deed, It flexes, molds, and yet sustains, A structure where our life remains.
A bridge that binds the flesh to bone, It gives our body strength, its throne, Protecting from each bruise and fall, The subcutaneous guards us all.
In every shiver, every heat, It keeps our balance, sure and sweet, Though out of sight, its work is clear, The hypodermis holds us near.
