A vice grips tight, a vise of bone,
My skull it squeezes, makes me moan.
A thrumming starts, a dull, deep ache,
Then builds to thunder, no mistake.
Behind my eyes, a pressure grows,
Like molten lead, it seeps and flows.
A fiery band constricts my brow,
Sweat beads erupt, I don’t know how
To hold it back, this searing tide,
That pulses, throbs, with nowhere to hide.
Each beat a hammer on an anvil bare,
My thoughts like dust, lost in the air.
The world around, a blurry haze,
Sharp light a knife that cuts and fazes.
A scent, a sound, intensifies
The agony, a cruel surprise.
Nausea wells, a rising tide,
Threatens to spill, can’t be denied.
My stomach churns, a knotted ball,
As weakness claims me, makes me fall.
The room spins round, a dizzying whirl,
Gravity shifts, a topsy-turvy world.
Time seems to stretch, each second crawls,
Trapped in this torment, built of walls
Of throbbing pain, a sensory war.
I crave the dark, a silent door
To an escape, a world of sleep,
Where pounding ceases, I can’t keep
This vigil up, this fight with light.
Darkness descends, a blessed night.
But in the dawn, the fear remains,
Of waking to that grip, those chains.
The StoryTeller 