Migraine

There is a bad idea clamping down on the left side of my brain. It rakes fingers tipped with obsidian scalpels across my supple imagination. I have swallowed a handful of pills carefully timed out to respect the continuation of my pulse. Yet the pain signals are never completely blocked. They blink on and off like alternate lights on a Christmas tree. A flickering menace happily gnaws on my peace. What cranial tolerance has given sanctuary to this larval execration? It was initially passed off as an intrusive thought of no practical import. A wriggling worm that swam unimpeded through tranquil bodies of intuition drying out on lush banks of scholastic training has now grown a lashing tale with restless limbs. A sparce population of optimistic thoughts swivel their ears and have learned to be fleet of foot. An invasive species of patently erroneous conclusions have leveraged their advantage over an ecosystem that has no defense against them. If I burn their nests, I will singe my faculty of speech. Poison can put them down, but memories will not come back in full strength. The den molds to habit of it's occupying fox. Niche habitats are not easily renovated. Co-existence is a chill that I can not thaw out. The prospect of contemplative life is no longer that of a light spiritual practice. Inward reflection has given way to a staring contest. The wretched things which look back will not back down from territorial dispute.