Before the storm, a warning: light grows sharp and thin,
A whisper at the temples, an ache beneath the skin.
The world begins to shimmer, colors blur and bend—
A silent drum is beating, sending its signals.
During comes the pounding, relentless, and severe,
A throb behind the eyelids, the sound you cannot hear.
Each movement sparks a ripple, each thought is met with pain,
You close your eyes and wonder if you’ll ever feel the same.
Afterwards, the silence—soft, a gentle, fragile peace,
The world returns in fragments; the pulsing finally ceased.
You’re weary as a river that’s finally met the sea,
Grateful for the quiet and the hope of being free.
M.A.D. Works 