In hidden realms where bones meet tender, Lie sacs of fluid, quiet defenders, Bursae they're called, in their nestled lair, Cushioning joints with utmost care.
Between tendons, muscles, skin they lie, Easing movement, as we walk or fly, Yet when overused, or trauma befalls, Inflammation strikes, and pain enthralls.
Repetitive motions, a silent foe, Or injury's sting, where troubles grow, Infection lurks, a shadow cast, Bursitis awakens, holding us fast.
Shoulder, elbow, hip, and knee, Even the heel, where pain may flee, These are the lands where bursitis reigns, With swelling, tenderness, its dire strains.
Symptoms worsen with each gentle sway, Or under pressure, where discomfort may stay, Rest, ice, and medicines take their stand, Guiding us back with a healing hand.
Physical therapy, a path to tread, Strengthening muscles, easing dread, Cortisone's touch, a calming grace, To quell the fire, in its embrace.
Yet in severe cases, where relief seems far, Surgical hands may reach the scar, Removing the bursa, inflamed and sore, Opening pathways to heal once more.
Bursitis, a saga of pain's cruel plight, Yet with care and treatment, we find the light, For in the dance of bones, and tendons' glide, Hope springs eternal, on healing's tide.
