A headache started in the earth, a tremor, quake, a shift,
it traveled through my barefoot soles;
it vibrated into my bones, shook the towers, tibia,
and clung to my pelvis a moment,
like a desperate lover--or a cloying cliche.
It curled up there and rested in my hips,
losing oxygen fuel before bursting out for lack of air,
like an inferno, into the cavity of my chest,
where it caught its/stole my breath then gripped my spine,
continued its climb up the vertebrae ladder.
A headache traced my shoulders' curves
and slithered down the length of my arms to my fingers
where it paralyzed the fifty-four parts,
the fifty-four fragile pieces that hold the pen and romance guitar strings,
that sketch, reform my vision to things beautiful.
It left my chest as useless, immobile as the rest
before proceeding to fill my head,
to scrape the base of my skull and
turn the spaces of my eye sockets to a vacuum;
a headache inhabits my consciousness.
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