The needle dances upon the vinyl floor, sliding with grace through grooves of the past. This dance is imperfect, full of pops, skips, and clicks. Yes she is old, and no longer dances the way she used to, but she still twirls around the turn table singing with the voices of legends.
The needle shall never know the joy she brings me. She'll simply dance within the tiny groove, performing a ballet of Bass clefs and quarter notes. I'm forever jealous of her, for she shakes hands with Elvis , shoots whiskey with Johnny Cash, and smokes cigars with Sinatra. She knows the legends better than I ever will.
Whenever a song is played on that old record I feel as though the voices of the past are calling to me pleading for me to listen. Those sweet voices are like dogs whose owners died long ago. Wondering around the room, searching in vain for someone to listen, and now they've found me.
YOU ARE READING
A Walk Through Life
PoetryThrough this cold and lonely world we walk with bare feet on course gravel and this book is like a pair of sandals. Those who want to find a better way to think should read this. Some of these poems will make you smile and laugh and some might make...
