In the soft terrain where pressure meets,
A silent pit the skin repeats.
A hollow stays, a gentle mark,
In swelling’s shadow, dim and stark.
A tidal flow beneath the flesh,
Where waters gather, trapped and fresh.
Fluid whispers its restless tale,
A swelling surge, a body frail.
The grades of depth, the tale they tell,
Of time and pit where fingers dwell.
First mild, a fleeting, shallow dive,
A hint of swelling still alive.
Then deeper grows the watery tide,
A longer stay, no place to hide.
Severe, the pit becomes profound,
A silent echo, soft, unbound.
The causes lie in hearts that fail,
Or kidneys’ burdened, faltering trail.
Livers weep with weakened grace,
As veins and vessels lose their race.
In malnutrition’s shadowed guise,
The body’s balance slowly dies.
Or pregnancy, a tender bloom,
Can fill the legs with fluid’s gloom.
Yet hope resides where care begins,
To treat the cause beneath the skin.
Compression wraps and diuretics call,
To stem the swelling, ease it all.
So let us learn this silent song,
Where pits endure, but not for long.
A body’s plea, a swollen rhyme,
A patient’s story told in time.
