I lay my head down soundlessly
And watch my will trickle
Down my wedding white cheek
Until it is absorbed into the aphotic pillow.
The pillow that turns to stone
In the morning
To the same mourning each day.
From its Siberian snarl I indulge myself
On a new coating of salt
Whipped, weeped onto my face
Into a brute-basilisk masquerade;
My flawed affectation.
Those crystals age me,
Spin me into another false look,
Even after I've washed my skin.
I'll take a pill, that'll do.
I'm pushing away reality and forcing faked content through.
For this, I'm presented with a blood-stained certificate
Allowing me to talk to you
Though it's not long time before the evening shredder eats it
And you drop me in a bucket,
Hook your muddy talons around the grasp,
And throw it to the cesspit.
I return to my hungry pillow,
Another night feeding it with the eyes' milk;
With the left eye and then the right eye
And then back again
Like an 'o'.
I feel it lapping up my tears
With the eternal flames.
I turn and burn.
Sandy Player's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Burnt Salt by Sandy Player )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Fishing Reasons, Edgar Albert Guest
- The Gentle Hand Of Women Folks, Edgar Albert Guest
- The Disgrace Of Poverty, Edgar Albert Guest
- Neil Snow, Edgar Albert Guest
- The Limit, Edgar Albert Guest
- The Child World, Edgar Albert Guest
- The Toiler, Edgar Albert Guest
- Sacrifices, Edgar Albert Guest
- The Value Of A Telephone, Edgar Albert Guest
- My mind is not without fear.., veeraiyah subbulakshmi