First, red nodules appear, tender, deep, and bold,
Then, pain spreads forth, a story slowly told.
Yet, even so, it’s the skin that hides the tale,
For beneath lies fat, inflamed, grown pale.
And while it often clings to shins with might,
At times, it spreads—arms, thighs caught in its light.
Thus, it forms in symmetry, a bruised disguise,
Though weeks may pass before its fervor dies.
Indeed, infections can light its fiery spark,
Or medicines, bringing shadows to the dark.
Then come diseases—Crohn’s, lupus, sarcoid’s hand,
Pregnancy, too, might lead this rash to stand.
However, still and silent as it starts,
The nodules tell of hidden aches in parts.
As fever rises, joints may grow inflamed,
Fatigue, too, follows; the body feels tamed.
But diagnosing its cause takes careful eyes,
For tests and biopsies remove the guise.
Then, treatments seek to soothe or ease the pain,
NSAIDs, steroids, rest—all break its chain.
Yet when EN’s purpose has run its course,
Often bruises linger, showing its force.
Thus, it comes and goes, a transient storm,
That shapes the skin, yet leaves us warm.
