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.
