Destiny is the dismembered head in that box in your hands

It could be ******
Smelling like a broken home and a shiny briefcase
It could be rotting
Like the stomach of the starving child climbing into the van

Or it could as old and dry
As the grass after winter under feet that have only known glass and shouting
Features still intact
A beagle playing with a stick
As his twin in recent memories gnaws on a stick of a starving leg

Close your eyes
Hold your breath
And once your heart is leaping out of your parched throat
Open the lid

Destiny is the dismembered head in that box in your hands