My spirit, a plucked string
with the contention of divine keys,
springing locks that hold me fast in work-a-day hallucination,
locks made of obligation, and stone, and the cinder-block walls of
perceived sentimentality,

The soulful drone,
the freedom of dancing fingers and wild flares of flashing creation
the self, revealed impromptu from
stage upon stage
and stage within
and lives where never a stage shall be

A gift in will,
a gift returned,
a gift so that the best exchange may stand,

A gift of holy sound from man to gods,
a gift of holy skill from gods to man.

Erich Campbell

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