The broken record lay still against the translucent frame,
its edges gleaming and pondering,
wondering and contemplating.
Murmurs of help echoed from it’s inaudible song of unfortunate souls,
untouched from the lack of ears willing to lend themselves to its hopeless wonder.
Fragments of other various abandoned records,
scattered with time by the blur of distant years,
lay side by side,
creating a collage of silent sound,
a memory waiting to happen,
just out of reach of the fingertips of those who yearn to hear.
True sound is a seldom pleasure,
a gift not often bestowed to the privileged and the righteous,
the haughty and the daring,
the cocky seekers of permanent gems and temporary happiness.
Only the meek and the gentle,
the spirited and the kindhearted,
only the heroes and vagabonds will truly hear,
will truly listen to the silent sound that has been playing since the beginning of time,
its broken record spinning for centuries.