Beneath the veil of scarlet pain, A wound persists, a cruel refrain. It mocks the hands that seek repair, With time, it grows—a silent snare.
No fleeting balm can soothe its fire, Inflammation's grip does not tire. Weeks turn to months, the clock stands still, Defying care, it bends all will.
An echo of infections’ wrath, A biofilm coats its stubborn path. Circulation falters, blood runs thin, A battle lost before it begins.
Diabetes whispers through the veins, Autoimmune strikes, compounding pains. Pressure bears down, unyielding, cold, While malnutrition takes its hold.
Yet hope persists, though faint it gleams, In therapies and patient dreams. A careful debride, the dead removed, A strategy of care improved.
Hyperbaric's breath of life, Cuts through the darkness, ends the strife. Golden threads of healing weave, A stubborn wound begins to grieve.
For every shadow casts some light, And wounds once lost may yet take flight. With science, art, and steadfast care, The recalcitrant yields to repair.
No journey’s simple, no cure too fast, But healing comes to those who last. The wound transforms, its story told, From crimson pain to skin of gold.
