/lit/ - Literature

Victrola

At first sight, I thought it was a casket.
Upright in the corner, cracked blood velvet,
The finest wood, the goldest trim,
Once at home in elegant mansions,
Now exiled to my basement,
Keeping company of cobwebs.
I crept down to investigate the sound,
His master's voice spoke to me, vaguely electric.
The haughty machine talk needled
my tarnished golden horn, gently
snaring my ribcage with stale percussion
“Sactuary!” cried sagging arias, its
archived inheritance now missing,
spinning times long gone.
I reached out with my childish intentions,
Looked into the spiraling pupil barred
by the coarse blood velvet, and spun
like shaky wartime couples
until I broke the crank off.