Veteran of Holy Wars

The Satyr was playing his flute in the tube, hairy hooves dangling over the edge.
The music was unpleasant, tuneful & light, but with something indecipherable lurking beneath, vague like the muffled cries of a child once you've slammed a door shut on one.
Despite this, the open guitar case sported a bounty of loose change & bills.
"You can't do that here" I mumbled, still leaning down regardless to drop a nickel in. "Subway will sever your-...hooves."
"Not hardly good patron"
His snarl exposed crooked yellow teeth, letting loose with one final flute blast; beautiful, but also like getting goosed by a man with only two fingers-
before dropping onto the tracks & dissolving into the shadows, waving....

     "I have a musicbox

   
     its silver, cold to touch

           its light
 
           & sometimes

             it rocks

 It whispers to me in the dark

 when I'm trying to sleep;

 that voice feels like sand

 
 It wants to be opened up

  cries to be unstuck

     I pitch it

     I wish it

       gone

   ....but it won't stay down

   it won't

 its waiting for me on the                        

 table when I get home

 staring at me from behind walls

 singing in the closet

 its not going to let me
 
  forget

          &

     In my dreams

       my fingers

   are sliding along the lid

     tracing the top

 trying to find a good reason

   why it should stay
         
         a secret"