Lightning in the temples
And storm-clouds in the brain-stem -
The imperfect end to an otherwise
Normal day.
Hammers on the cranium,
Tap-dancing on the occipital bone,
Sharp flashes of sunlight
On bare optic nerves.
Darkness is the answer,
The skeleton key in a rusty lock
Of a treasure chest overflowing
With moonstone and dreams.
A blanket over the face,
A shroud over the corpse.
It’ll be gone in the morning.
(73 words)
1 comment:
oh ouch. That sounds excruciating. I don't envy the headaches you get. I like how you described yourself as a corpse, good analogy.
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