Though migraine grips the verbal heart,
The language classifying part,
That stores up libraries or larders,
One strives to lean the word-hunt ladders
Up against the bulging shelving
Harvesting thesaurus entries,
Rummaging for synonyms
Listed in its catalogues
In basic alphabetic order.
Yet the monologue
That chatters, like mad jazz
That pitter patters,
Seems to keep some semblance
Of linguistic rhyme and reason,
Round the edges, at the border
Some sense of something more worth noting,
Useful when one’s anecdoting.
Through its swollen vein revealing,
Showing sideways on, imparting,
Some strange aspect, which when spoken
By the twisted lips, tongue stumbling,
From the mangled mind, half broken,
Seems some oddly chained connection,
Interlinked but not by Latin,
Not by root, and not by thinking,
Not by truth or deeper meaning,
Pulled out from the sagging shelf,
Though the steps are weak and rotten,
Tripping, lisping, tumbling, mumbling,
Comprehended on reflection,
Sadly, only by oneself,
Through the aura, pre-pain season,
Only briefly, then forgotten.
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