Anyone can reach their hands inside your head

Bending, twisting, crushing

Manipulating thought patterns

Wringing out the sponge

Leaking thoughts on the floor

There's an aluminum sculpture

Inside your skull

It's molders are everywhere

It's creators are wandering


Mangled tin-foil in their heads

Becoming brittle and snapping

Under the stress of a million curious grubby hands

Caressing thoughts

Or wrenching them out

Mangled tin-foil in their heads