Beneath the nail, a silent creep, A fungus stirs from slumber deep, Onychomycosis takes its hold, In shades of yellow, brown, and gold.
It starts a spot, so small, unseen, A blemish mild where nails gleam clean, But soon it spreads, with silent might, Turning the toenail's tip to blight.
The nail grows thick, begins to curl, A brittle, crumbling, twisted swirl, Once smooth and strong, now weak and frail, This fungal foe will not derail.
A faint foul odor starts to rise, Beneath the surface, infection lies, The nail lifts up, begins to part, A painful rift where health departs.
In humid shoes and locker rooms, The fungus thrives in moist perfumes, Where sweaty feet and warmth reside, This stubborn pest will surely hide.
For those whose age has worn them thin, Or those with diabetes’ skin, The fungus grips with tighter hands, Infections grow across the lands.
Yet hope remains with creams and care, Or oral meds for those who dare, Though months may pass with patient fight, The fungal plague can end its blight.
Prevention holds the final key: Keep feet dry, clean, and fungus-free, In breathable shoes and socks that shield, And barefoot floors, we must not yield.
