Ode to the Turntable

I delicately lift the glass casing, 

Which shields a soul, eagerly awaiting 

The company of a black disk, and a 

Needle to rest so carefully on the edge. 

A soft scratching sound emits, the needle 

Moving along the groove, bleeding out vibrations

And a rhythm that overtakes the listener. 

Don’t let them stop the dance. 

Perpetually spinning, going nowhere 

But taking us somewhere, likes waves refusing 

To crash. The needle nears the center; 

The record approaching the end of its travels.

Worn down, a moment skipped, 

Forever missed. Your companion 

Has grown, tattered, but you 

Persist. There will always be another.