Lonely Boy Lonely boy.
Abandoned son.
Trapped in a room all alone.
Enough things to eat. Enough things to do.
Felt like a lion,
caged in a zoo.
Never left the room.
Never saw the world.
The room was his world.
Locked from the outside. 
And he had no key.
Someone else left him captive.

One day, he though, he would grow strong enough
to break through the door
and embrace the world.
But not yet. So he sat
in a lonely room,
too cold to be comfortable,
in the remotest of regions,
with one small window
that had grown dirty and smudged
over the years.

The boy found a treasure,
an old radio.
He plugged it in long ago,
and listened to the noise.
It was the only noise.
His only companion.
He played with it now and then,
but he heard only static.
A rustling.
A hiss.
He didn’t know what the sound meant.
But at least it was something.
A friend.
They spoke an indiscernible language.

The boy and the radio grew up together.
Sad and long.
A little chilly.
Silent. 
Except for a 
Hiss.

Then one day, the static faded away.
A new sound faded into the room.
The boy was lying in his bed,
wide awake. 
He heard a piano.
Chopin.
He ran to the box.
He listened, rapt by the music.
Never heard this before.
Didn’t know what to think.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breath.
The soft melody filled the room.
It was full.

The room was lovely.
The boy hosted a beautiful guest.
The music seemed to send warmth
through the chilled air,
that reached all the way
to the heart of the boy.

Then just as it had come,
the music left.
And the static returned.

The boy knelt silently in front of the box.
Wept.
Long and quietly.
Wept.

A brief dance with life
A sting of loss.

Hiss.




Written and Copyrighted by Jarod S. Osborne, 2005  ¶ 5:23 PM