The Last Gramophone

I have wept your words so many times; their hurt’s become my own,
These groves worn thin, then begin again; myth and memory intoned.
An impostor I, to sing your songs, they could never sound the same,
These crippled fingers cannot hold the hands that once chronicled such pain.

I am not the breath, the soft wet sweet, that carries out the harm,
I am not the breeze that falls your hair; such gently misplaced charm.
I am not the pen in steady hand that writes the words you feel,
I am not script that captures it, too honest and surreal.
I am not the tears that trace your cheek, but jealous of their touch,
I am not the sun that warms your skin, I envy oh so much.
I am not the hope and innocence, still residing in your words,
I am not the sighs and unslept nights, nor apologies never heard.

All I am is gears and wood; all too human this empty shell,
Cursed and blessed to but repeat, these songs I know too well.
Before you sleep, this sound you’ll keep; all I can give you is my heart:
It stops and starts,
It stops and starts,
It stops and starts,
It stops and…

Written 2010 © Charles L. Liotta