On migraine

The aching orb of eye, tuned to the thrum,  
foretells the sudden swelling of the vein.
The nerves sing to the tune. A brittle drum
booms with illumined blood before the pain.

An earthquake shakes the rigid skull again.
The bottle-cap, screwed tight, will overflow.
A sliver of the sun inside the brain 
is streaming through the spectrum, all too slow.

The vessels squeeze out loose ends of the glow
and iridescence leaves the iris blind.
A bell tolls in the bone. Chemical rain
has etherized the tissue of the mind.

Just a little poem on migraine I've been working on, line by line, for a few months. I'm not a poet by nature, but I've always wanted to try and sum up to a non-migraineur how it feels to experience one.