Inside a Guitar

Inside a guitar lay cords never before been played.
Cords that taste like pineapple ice cream which is tart like a war head.
Cords that carry around a room like waves bouncing to the beach and back to the ocean.
But there are more than just cords in a guitar.
There is a city.
A city of picks that have fallen into the guitar.
Picks, triangle like the point of a house.
They are carefully discussing how they will make the unknown cords known.
They are like little businessmen.
This is what I see inside a guitar.