Blue Migraine

Blue Migraine

The whistle of a blue migraine

clear cut against the weave,

thought in a series of sobs

the only possible solution

a vacancy.

Sludge of blood in a death march,

the conjure of demons, this razor,

this anguish, how pain does pale

within the evolution, sideways

seizure.

Plotting escape from the planet

swaddled in loss, the inability

to edit or refurbish, the same dull

walls needing paint, shabby heartbreak

of cheap pine.

Hostage, the repetition as neck

becomes iron, shoulders seared

by a blade, no breath eased,

a suffering diminished by its banal truth,

betrayal.