If I could open up your head
like a music box to watch it sing
I’d peer into foreign lands that are
worthy of worshipping.
It would be bothersome to boast
about anything but the small
milky way of existential longing
that bleeds into your brain.
For the charades that make your head
so heavy,
are the cylinders that spin.
And the bullshit that you wish to forget
are the pins that pluck the prongs
of your most coveted song.