Remember the tracks
high up in the stacks,
the ones we searched for
wading through every store.
Remember the vinyl screeching
at the touch of a stylus reaching
the pits of its inner storm,
while we sat tethered, while we roamed
through the fractals of our fickle souls.
Time is a bitch, but we rolled
over for its enticing grasp,
after numerous unappealing blasts,
we got music at our fingertips;
from silky discs to sweating from trips
while the tunes came with us
without much fuss.
No more stores to search,
no more rarity in the art to perch,
as with everything else
mass-produced, from the soul to the shell.
YOU ARE READING
Vinyl
PoetryThis poem is about the progress of the music industry and what we lost and gained along the way. If you find any other meaning for this poem, know that it was absolutely intentional.
