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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


Migraine travels from the back
to the front.
It is the last broken dish
in the house.
The shutter off its hinge.
The blasted rose that never opens.
It is the nonsensical sense of the brain.
The flooding of rivers.
The aurora borealis of the night.
The fluttering of bats.
The rending of sails.
The knocking at the door revealing no one.

And then, as quickly as it comes
it leaves.
The sky turns blue.
Quiet reigns,
and the spell that follows new rain
hangs in the air radiant and clean.
Migraine leaves like guests
you never invited,
and has you sigh in relief
at their going.

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