My soul plays like a record player

Sometimes it is like jazz

Other times it scratches and skips

The jagged needle injured and unwilling

My mind sounds like a typewriter

The chattering tapping

Invading even the visions

Behind my sleeping eyes

My heart is like a pocket watch

With hands that skip a beat here and there

I wear it on a silver chain

Careful not to lose it

My memories are kept in a locket

Faded pictures

Worn with time and care

My ambition is a freight train

Shrieking through the night

Unwilling to stop before its destination

I long for the graceful, golden days

When these things were beautifully common

I am an antique

My hands are like a fountain pen

Fragile but noble

Delicately scrawling these lines

That are my gospel

I look at these hands and see

That they are older than they should be

Hands that know secrets

The hands of a poet


2 comments on “Anachronistic

  1. cbeckwith32 says:

    Keep writing! This is beautifully written 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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