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.
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Comments about this poem (Burnt Salt by Sandy Player )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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(1914 - 1955)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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