Crackling sounds came from the vinyl.
Distorted, they whispered throughout
The room, telling the secrets of the dead.
They were imprints, reflecting in their
Dusty rings the scars of memories that
Deflated in grandeur as the player wound
Out. It was broken, dying with the memories
Of the past. Sometimes people came,
But it was reduced to novelty, a relic.
It coughed into life, fading, neglected
And abandoned. Relegated to a corner, it too
Began to forget. Oblivious to itself, it lost
Purpose and being, warping and bending
Inward, until its sounds became wicked and
Incoherent, impressions of abstractions
That reduced it, shrunk it, until the secrets
Became faint cries, foreign and disturbing. Soon
It faded away, no grand exit, a gasping breath.
It left alone, swirling around and around
Until it hit the ground. Silence. No whispers.