.: Migraine :.

The world is so cold and I so hot
I press my head to anything I've got
It saunters up in there without remorse
And stabs til I have little recourse

It forever spins with no completion
Carelessly it grabs my cerebrum
It violently twists without compassioning
And it sculpts my skull as if refashioning

Alchemists' Red Tincture, my cherry meds
Ocean tide motions the throbbing weds
With axe pressed into the spot between eyes
Head no longer wood but a marble guise

Plucking lucidity from my poor grilled brain
Without ever stopping, those black birds of pain
Peck at me today, more again and again
Birds four and twenty? Try one hundred and ten