Still, without the touch of the needle
The silent record sits in wait.
Line after line of etched in melody
Worn, -- even abused
Scarred and scraped
A scratch here
Some dust there
Replayed, again and again
Black vinyl, once heavy, worn thin
Only to be abandoned on the turntable
Where it once served its purpose.
Neglected, unused
The silent record stays still
Hoping to one day turn again.
For a workshop exercise on imagism, in which I had to create a 'portrait' of an object. I picked a record, of course.
