Glass in hand you recline,
For your very own calming standstill,
The turntables sense your earned slack,
And begins its twisting dance,
Soothing your daily hurts is its objective,

Round and round,

Elegantly it twirls,
A black disc of musical sorcery,
The stylus a conductors tool,
This onyx maestro is an aural hot spring,
The tune washes over you,

Round and round,

Each note is an invisible bandage,
Strings of sublime contact via your ears,
The touch of a seraph,
The sips of crimson from your glass coalesce,
Tongue and hearing in a refined waltz of healing,

Until the record abates.

Comments
  1. Carol anne says:

    this is great! ❤ really cool!

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