I have migraines I cannot bear,
Ones that slowly overshadow me.
I tether to them, wrestle their welter,
Yet they refuse to obey my orders.
Like a slave, I loathe the last light,
A pause from the dusk's sanguine blood.
My waxen, fractured brain lies corroded,
Swallowed by gossamer pills of nectar.
My head is a mess, a broken catalogue
Of fugacious thoughts and miasmic residue.
The ache, the tingling motion of distress,
Doesn't fade; it just twirls around like driftwood.
I live with it like an enduring nemesis,
An eldritch foe, long forlorn into insanity.
I tend to it in dismay, without self-respect—
That is only if I have anything left in me.