"The Doors Are All Open. I'm Going to Go Now," Said the Simple Harmonic Oscillator

A bad title is a cumbersome
Albatross around the poet's neck.
No it isn't. But the poet would

Like to get rid of the stink of it.
God, in a familiar, incorrect
Version of the unknown universe,

Tapped celestial fingers to count
The beats no sad monotheist could
Intuit. It's hard to feel the pulse

Of everything from nothing without
Discreetly counting oscillations.
But let's not blame our dream deities

For the shortcomings that beset us,
Animals like drops of water, ponds
Teeming with the lives preceded us.

Those lives have to get rid of the things
That the divinity interprets
As a stink around the collared self.

I want to go home now, groans the bird
Dragooned into being a symbol.
Tick-tock. One-two. I'm going to go now.