In places rich with oil's gleam,
Where skin doth shine, or so it seems,
A quiet itch begins to rise,
Beneath the scalp, behind the eyes.
On forehead, chest, and nose it creeps,
In flaky scales, its presence keeps,
A red, inflamed, and oily quest,
A nuisance on the skin's fair crest.
Seborrhea, with unknown start,
A mystery to the healer's art,
Yeast that grows beyond its bounds,
In overactive skin it pounds.
Malassezia, the culprit there,
Breeds in oil, in skin so fair,
A chronic dance it spins with stress,
In cold or dry, it shows distress.
The scalp may bear its flaky crown,
In dandruff's fall, the hair looks down,
Or worse, in scales, severe it grows,
Upon the skin, its story shows.
Yet hope lies in a medicated balm,
Shampoos and creams that bring a calm,
Antifungals, gentle hands,
Restore the skin, in healing lands.
Though mysteries remain unsolved,
In patient care, the symptoms dissolve,
Seborrhea's tale may wax and wane,
But through it all, we ease the pain.
