In the silent realms where moisture fades, A desert blooms upon the skin’s parade. Xeroderma, the whisper of the dry, A tale of scales where softness used to lie.
Rough terrain where once was smooth, A brittle touch that nature can’t soothe. Flakes like leaves in autumn’s call, A gentle scratch, and they start to fall.
Itching thoughts, a constant plight, In the cold, the skin takes flight. Humidity low, the air steals more, Leaving behind a parched, cracked shore.
But in the balm of care, relief does live, Moisture’s gift, the skin can give. With creams and salves, the healing starts, A tender touch for fragile parts.
In the balance of nature and care, Xeroderma finds solace there. A quiet hope in every layer, A patient hand, a healer’s prayer.
