This doesn't come close to conveying how I feel.

Skin stretched,
encases this calamity.

All is paradoxical,
until I am dead.

Bereft of space while breathing.
Lacking luck while in the loam.
A catch twenty two.

And yet I own a tiny strength
in the form of living melody,
until instinct sings a louder song of unfair mercy.

There is only one version
and it will drown everything else out.

So, for now:
Notes nourish contortions.

My body curves.
My lips curl.

What kind of vessel am I?
Am I really even a valid vessel of any kind?

Validity is subjective.

I sway this skin any which way.
I moisten this mouth of mine for tonal messages.

Grey matter links - tongue, teeth, throat
with a sound that comes from the Invisible.

This tune - is a sweet, maniacal cosmic trap.
This tune - is a sweet, decrepit landscape.
This tune - is a sweet, decrepit spacescape.

I am said to be a best breed - a living grand machine.
But there is no grander machine - than the ever so, immortal Music.