Vinyl crackles and spits,
creased reviews unfold.
Sometimes it sounds
better in my head.

All in the mind,
a doorway for ghosts
to come and find me,
drag me back to then.

The band on the sleeve
have not aged;
my lounge is
a dark concert hall.

Music fills the room
like a memory:
dust in sunlight
and then gone.




© Rupert M Loydell

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