I think that there's a phonograph in my mind
that plays the memories of pianists from long ago.
Sometimes, they remember.
Other times, the memories simply leave.
But the times when something repeats over and over and over
It seems to be lodged in my head;
Lodged in my eyes;
Lodged in my ears,
Like the circular chords of today's music.
When that broken phonograph runs its needle
Over the dark, worn vinyl of the record,
All I can do is dance helplessly.
The broken ones simply make me repeat.
Debussy,
Ravel,
Chopin,
Liszt,
And many others
Will swim around in the music of my mind forever.
Forever.
Forever.
Forever.
Like a broken phonograph.
YOU ARE READING
Verbosity
PoetryI think too much. Maybe that's what leads me to write so much and with such a diction. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's a bad thing. Maybe we will never know if it's even of any consequence. Oh, well. I suppose I'll see you inside.
