Beneath the skin, the veins entwine,
A network flowing, once so fine.
But when the valves, fatigued, give way,
The blood no longer finds its sway.
It pools, it lingers, in the vein,
Bringing with it silent pain.
The legs grow heavy, swollen tight,
As stasis creeps in, dimming light.
In lower limbs, the flow grows slow,
Where once it surged, it’s now too low.
The valves, once strong, now weakened lie,
And venous streams no longer fly.
A reddish stain begins to spread,
The skin turns dark where blood has bled.
Edema swells, a sluggish tide,
The legs of those who stand and bide.
With varicose veins in twisted line,
Or deep vein clots, unseen, malign.
In lives where stillness takes its toll,
The veins, neglected, lose control.
But hope remains in every stride,
With stockings worn or legs held high.
Through motion, healing may return,
And blood, once more, may freely churn.
Compression, care, and gentle aid,
Can lift the weight that time has laid.
For venous stasis, though it stays,
Can ease, with mindful, measured ways.
