Migraine

a dónde te escondiste?, originalmente cargada por verunicaH.

I.
Inadequacy: caries of the brain,
sugared by loneliness. Roots so deep

it conjures an iron crown
bolted to the bone, but growing,

growing. Migraine's grey house.
The brilliance of snow on fake trees

and the flash of jingles.
And what if this was said to be ENOUGH

for a whole lifetime?
The skull a sarsen of its own pain.

like the girl's skidden into by the car
who said, on France Inter,

that every second now
was une vraie galère for good,

and that she couldn't forgive.
And what if she could?

Would the stone be lifted by a flight of angels?
Would the undulations flatten to a calm?

II.

The pain's organised, like crime...

(A.Thorpe)