I rest in the night,

Growing weak and pale.

My skin begins to crack,

 The leather starts to fail.

It too feels old,

I slowly grow cold.

But when I wake,

I'm used for school, long hours of work.

Heating up above the boy’s head,

My hands cup his stone-hard ears,

blasting sound from my two palm-sized drums.

My life source, a wire so long,

Nearly a meter of pure copper strings.

It charges me, it satisfies my hunger

For electricity.

He puts me on his head,

which sits below my belly arc.

He scratches his hair 

where I make him itch

The day slowly passes,

At last my job is finished.

I am put away on my slab of stone, 

Silently and happily, he leaves on his own.

Showering and teeth brushing, as I can hear.

Another night for the phones of the ear.