Migraine

The head hurts

(drum roll)

the ideas are crowded

with no way out

from the skull or the temples

in the arteries’ throb.

There’s nothing left to do but close

the eyes in the dark,

patiently wait

that the noise goes away

of the clogs whacking the ground,

that the horde,  replete of barbarity,

at last goes away.

It’s by now time for inspection

at the battlefield,

still smoking of powder,

abandoned, beaten up,

stiff, deserted.

Free however

to the renewed instinct

of the organism

to its recovery.

February 4, 2004