Forgotten Melodies

In dusty corners of the attic,

A phonograph stands sentinel.
Its brass horn, once proud and loud,
Now whispers only to cobwebs.

Vinyl records lean in stacks,

Their sleeves worn thin with age.
Grooves hold songs unplayed,
Melodies trapped in circular prisons.

A player piano, keys yellowed,

Its scroll curled and brittle.
The ghosts of fingers past
Hover over silent ivories.

Sheet music scattered on the floor,

Staves faded, notes barely visible.
Composers' dreams lie dormant,
Their genius muted by neglect.

An old guitar leans in shadow,

Strings slack, neck slightly warped.
The calluses it once inspired
Long smoothed from fingertips.
A trumpet, tarnished and dented,
Its valves stuck fast with time.
The breath that gave it voice
Now just a memory of air.

Harmonicas nestle in a drawer,

Their reeds choked with dust.
Blues laments and joyful jigs
Trapped behind metal combs.

A metronome stands frozen,

Its steady tick-tock silenced.
The heartbeat of practice sessions
Stilled by the hands of time.

Concert programs yellow and curl,

Applause echoes faintly within.
Encores demanded, bows taken,
Now playing to empty seats.

Music boxes wait, wound tight,

Their tinkling tunes unheard.
Ballerinas poised mid-pirouette,
Forever anticipating their cue.

In this graveyard of sound,

Silence reigns supreme.
Yet listen closely, you might hear
The whisper of forgotten refrains.

For music never truly dies,

It sleeps within the instruments.
Waiting for a gentle touch,
To wake and fill the air again.

But for now, dust settles softly,

On keys and strings and brass.
These forgotten melodies linger,
In the space between the notes.