The Loneliness of a Deco Scribe

I heard music from 84 years ago,
it wafted through the corridor,
haunting me every night,
sometimes I thought I could see it,
though I know that was ridiculous,

and I liked my green couches,
and my gold fixtures,
and my red plush tufted chairs,

I melted into them a bit,
every time I heard that music,
it reminded me of the kind of death I wanted to be close to,
because it was glamorous,
and unforgiving,
and newly minted,

but that goddamn music was heavy on my ears,
it made me sick,
but I was afraid I would never hear it again,

so I slept near a broken gramophone,
waiting for what deafness might do to my imagination