As I lay back and listen to the cold electronic static of the old, half broken television set, i can hear the voices on the noise.
They are the prayers of a thousand lonely souls who are desperately calling out for someone, anyone, to hear them, to understand, to listen.
As the pixels jump across the screen and the shadows on the walls dance in a rhythmic harmony that only God himself can decipher, i'm still listening to the words of a million hearts acheing, begging, pleading for someone to say, "it'll all be alright..."
it'll all be alright.
The old gift victrola is sitting in the corner, gathering dust and desperately needing a new set of needles. It doesnt mean what it once did. It's lost it's purpose in a sea of a thousand lies and deceits.
If it were me, i'd be asking for an old electric radio. One that only picks up the AM frequencies. I'd rather listen to those voices of the past who are forever lost in the cold hum of the electromagnetic fields. I'd rather listen to them as they call for may-day, or speak in code, or punch the morse signal in a desperate attempt to warn of the upcoming shelling or air-raid. Sometimes i wish i could hear the sirens and the planes buzzing overhead, and the loud whine of the mortars as they come crashing down on the roof tops, leaving nothing but ruble and broken dreams in their wake.