Echoes of the Basement

In Pop’s basement, dimly lit, where wires tangle like time’s thread,
The organ hums softly, its voice a low metallic whine.
Its bellows wheeze, like weary lungs, strained by burdened years,
Each note a whisper of memories, soaked in oil and tears.

The scent of solder clings to air, mingling wood and decay,
While copper coils and faded parts keep secrets of the war.
Pop’s hands move steady, tracing lines, a sculptor at his craft,
Each wire speaks of battles fought, each spark a fleeting flare.

“She’d hate this noise,” Pop murmurs low, his voice a ghostly chord,
“She liked the quiet, the soft of light—silence she adored.”
But the organ sings for Pop alone, its song both harsh and real,
A hymn of labor, loss, and love, a testament of steel.

In the corner, shadows deepen, cradling untold pasts,
Of Aiko and the letters kept, of bonds too fragile to last.
“Takeshi,” Pop breathes, his hands now still, “a brother in the war.”
A silence drapes the air; the organ waits to explore.

Above, the world spins careless, loud with fleeting jest,
But here below, the basement breathes, a place where minds can rest.
Pop’s fingers hover over keys; no melody takes flight,
For some songs linger in the dark, never needing light.

S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Nov 19, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1858731320081604846?t=gWTPLUwqkZn2AoTrr4Lriw&s=19

https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2089