Salt

The sweat of my brow,
Salty, pouring,
Making its exodus from my body,
Leaving room for something.

A devilish thing,
A mere creation of the mind,
Yet plaguing me every day.

Stress.

Filling the empty space,
Weighing more than fathomable,
Breaking all underneath.

And then I taste the salt,

With origins from below, now.
Taking part in an act of release.
"Create that empty space,"
Or so I think.

This space is new,
Fillable only by something undiscovered;
Something far in the distance.

So I let the salt come,
Hitting my tongue like waves of doubt,
Rolling from my cheek with indiscretion.

Fear not the void that's left,
For only hope can fill it.

And so my eyes pour,

Salt.