A dark and lonely corner
is where this tale begins.
A little boy in the corner,
on the outside looking in:
A room of fear, a room of hate,
of pain personified,
a place of tear-soaked misery,
the place his childhood died.

The little boy in the corner
had turned to face the walls;
refused the healing hands
by denying what he saw.
A tender age—all too young
to know what he understood.
A song played out that no one sung,
and he heard what no one should.
A fact this cold, not meant for ears,
and much too old for youth,
carried in his heart for years
to wipe away the truth.

A voice broke from the walls
and whispered to his heart
(the child gripped by its call
before the boy could start),
“Listen here—take my hand;
I want to make a deal.
Sell your weary soul to me,
for you no longer feel.
In return, I’ll cut you free
from emotion’s petty rule.
Just be smart and stick with me.
don’t be a righteous fool.”

The child, at first enchanted
as options roamed his head,
had fallen victim to a fear
of what the walls had said.
The corner, once obscuring
the pain he couldn’t face,
stood now only assuring
he’d have to leave this place.

The youngster in the corner
found courage to respond.
Though long it had been quiet,
he broke the silent bond,
“I’m not the fool you take me for,
and my soul’s not for sale-
-the deed to which, I hold secure
in knowledge you will fail.
For all these years have been in vain,
but now I see the light.
Experience has caused me pain,
but also given sight.”

Now as he turned to walk away,
a desperate voice cried out,
“Maybe you won’t sell today,
but you will have your doubts!
And if someday you change your mind,
you know just where I’ll be.
Any problems? -come and talk;
my time is always free.”

The young man once more faced the walls
to finalize his choice;
and with these words he reaffirmed
his answer to the voice:
“You’re not my psychiatrist;
you’re not even my friend.
For all the time you thought you had,
it’s time for this to end.
And now that I’ve explained my side,
you know just how I feel.
Relax and know, I know you tried,
but the answer’s still ‘no deal.’”

That one dark lonely corner,
now a vision in his past,
remains a fading shadow
that o’er his heart is cast.
No intellect can cure his mind,
or mend his broken heart,
for every pain in life has purpose;
each one plays a part.

***
This poem represents the oldest work of mine that will appear on this site (at least for now). I wrote it in my teens. I struggled to overlook some defficiencies in my writing style at the time this was written, as I’m sure I will have to do with some of my more recent poems when I read over them many years from now. Though it’s light years behind the lyrical style of Sting, it was spurred on by “The Soul Cages”, the title track of one of his albums. At least that’s how I saw the antagonistic relationship of the talking walls and the little boy. I admit I like the line in his song about whistling when the caged bird sings—probably because it took me so long to figure out what that phrase meant. I regret the lack of a clever wager between the child and his “captor” (as there is in the song), but I was almost satisfied at the time with my early experiment into the use of dialogue in poetry. It’s a somewhat personal piece for me, and rest assured, nobody who doesn’t already know the subject matter will get much of a clue about specifics from this poem. Suffice it to say, it’s another tale of youthful pain and misery, but with a bit of a hopeful ending.