Migraine
Starting subtle, not a hiss of pain,
But inside of the skull feels sour.
Senses strengthen: sounds grow sharper,
Skin sensitive, and smells, too, intensify,
As sight skews by the hour.
Silent agony creeps closer,
Unobserved and unassuming, until,
Like Athena birthing herself,
Spear clashes with bone
And the brain itself attempts escape.
Then pain closes.
Then pain comes.
Too late to stop.
Too late to do anything,
But curl and cry,
Silently, in a
Stygian
bed.
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