Beneath the skin, a battle rages still,
As collagen weaves tight against the will.
Scleroderma grips with a hardened hand,
Turning supple flesh to stone, across the land.
A face once soft now wears a mask of stone,
As fingers turn to marble, chilled and lone.
Raynaud’s curse paints white and blue in streaks,
While joints cry out, their movements small and weak.
Localized, it strikes in gentle waves,
In patches on the arms where beauty caves.
Morphea whispers in a quiet plea,
While Linear draws lines that none can see.
Yet deeper still, where heart and lungs reside,
Systemic screams, with organs it collides.
Limited, it creeps with gentle grace,
But CREST’s hard truths leave marks upon the face.
In diffuse form, it spreads with faster pace,
Turning breath and beat into a race.
The esophagus stiffens, heartburn grows,
And lungs take shallow breaths that no one knows.
Through thickened skin, the spirit seeks to rise,
A force unseen but bright behind the eyes.
No cure can break the hold that it does wield,
But hope still blossoms in a heart unsealed.
Through treatments, love, and time, the soul will bend,
For every storm will meet its peaceful end.
