Art Out Of Air

Another piece of the dream arrived today.
Sure, it looks a lot like a cardboard box
Containing yet another sound-making apparatus,
But it is so much more than that.
See, what it is is one more thing that helps me access myself.
Mine is a vision that needs tools to be articulated.
It can't emerge from air.
The contents of this new box
Will be installed next to the things that came
In other boxes on other days,
And, when used correctly and in the right frame of mind,
Will allow me to get closer to the core of my being.
Music is my authenticity. Nothing has ever been more real.
It has lead me to every person I know,
Paid many bills,
Kept me off the ledge when there was nothing else.
It will save me again now, in my time of need.
The dream has never left, the fire never cooled.
If not this, then I don't know what.

Without these things, all I can do is sing to myself.
With them, I can talk to the spirits and teach you my world.
They end up battered and worn,
Because I wring the dream out of them.
Their loving demise brings me to life.
My talent is not great enough
To make art out of air.
I am enslaved to the device,
To the apparatus of creation.