Deep in the marrow, where life’s threads weave, Heme takes its form, yet some perceive A fault within the alchemist’s art, Porphyrins rise, and troubles start.
In shadowed halls of nerve and bone, Acute attacks lay claim, unknown. A fiery grip on the belly's core, Confusion reigns, and strength’s no more.
The mind, a storm of fleeting thought, By seizures and madness often caught. Muscles falter, trembling, weak, The body’s language, strained to speak.
Yet some, beneath the burning sun, Find solace lost, for pain’s begun. Their skin, like glass, will blister, tear, Scarring the beauty once found there.
Porphyria Cutanea Tarda’s name, Erythropoietic burns the same. A cruel jest, the light they flee, A world of shadows, their decree.
What triggers these unyielding woes? The hand of fate, where iron flows. A drink too sweet, a fast too lean, A spark to kindle what lies unseen.
Yet hope persists, in science bound, Where tests and treatments oft are found. A phlebotomist’s art, a glucose stream, Hemin’s touch to soothe the dream.
Sunlit days remain afar, Yet strength endures where battles are. Porphyria, rare as it may be, A tale of resilience, victory.
Let those who bear this cryptic plight, Find courage rising in the night. For in their veins, a story flows, Of struggle met and hope that grows.
