ABOUT THE POEM: Music is a poem about creation after meaning has thinned out. It contrasts the old mythology of art-money, bands, studios, sacrifice-with the present moment, where making a song is trivial in time but not in consequence. The ease of creation does not bring fulfillment; it sharpens isolation. The speaker owns the work instantly, yet has no shared world to receive it. The poem moves from factual observation into existential exposure. “My creation, looping alone” frames art as self-contained, echoing in a vacuum. The traveler motif introduces a desire for escape, but not hope-only removal. Grief here is quiet, incurable, and bureaucratic, “kills without a grave.” Social judgment is blunt: shallow survival versus deep extinction. No moral correction follows. The poem refuses balance. The image of the security guard at an empty gate captures the final state-vigil without purpose, responsibility without community. Music becomes the last interlocutor, stripped of romance. It does not heal or inspire. It diagnoses. The closing line rejects transcendence and replaces it with clinical truth. This is not art as salvation, but art as witness-clear-eyed, unsentimental, and alone.