In realms unseen by scalpel’s eye, A silent storm begins to rise. The gut, a world of secrets deep, Its whispers rob the soul of sleep.
A brain-gut dance, a tangled thread, With pathways neither live nor dead. A message sent, yet poorly heard, Disturbed by signals blurred, absurd.
Irritable bowels twist and groan, In patterns all their own, unknown. Constipation holds like gripping chains, While diarrhea falls like endless rains.
Dyspepsia burns, a bitter sting, A feast of pain with every spring. Rumination, cruel and unkind, Loops of torment replayed by mind.
The microbiome, a galaxy vast, Its balance lost, a shadow cast. Visceral nerves cry loud and sharp, A discord plucked upon the harp.
No broken bones, no tissues torn, Yet in this quiet, lives are worn. Psychosocial storms ignite, As diets shrink and freedoms bite.
But through the haze of chronic pain, Hope whispers softly, not in vain. With FODMAP charts and mindful care, A patient learns the load to bear.
The puzzle vast, though incomplete, Unites in efforts brave and sweet. For though unseen, these wars are real, And healing comes through time to heal.
