Headquartered
on an ancient futon,
I spin, unanchored.
In corners high above me,
cobwebs thicken. The wheat-colored carpet
darkens, in places, with stains.
Drip by drip. Pain builds.
I cling to the view
from my periscope
as the sloshing in my head
washes over me.
The bottom drops.
Not a migraine sufferer but now I understand, thanks to this striking poem.
Not a migraine sufferer, but reading this I now understand. This is a striking poem that provides insight into the unexperienced.
Powerful, imaginative, and succinct. Great poem!