Jazz; mesmerising, as I watch,
the vinyl spin, grooves filled in by,
cigarettes smoked a century ago,
A revolving reminder,
that we all must, eventually go,
But some, those precious souls,
are immortal: inspiring,
And I see listen or read; the show so beguiling, as if, their deaths could never be so.
The song ended, I won’t tell you which,
and there’s a sadness, in the rich needle analogue,
cigarette burns and old type of yesteryears,
entire back catalogue.
Sporadically, I get lost, ice in my glass molten,
and a fog,
Knowing that in some way the great artists exist,
Preserved a little more with every embrace of nostalgia,
and each reminisce.