tired eyes.

Overplayed notes linger in the air,
The song long since finished,
The music fades, only sound remains.
The dusky, musky smell of fake smoke
Whispers through the darkened room,
They never open the heavy drapes,
That obscure windows caked with grime,
And dust, and dead moths, built up over time.
A loner passes by in the lonely alleyway,
A mournful tune escaping from a rusted harmonica,
Nothing more than a thin silhouette, a faded cliché.
Their shoes are worn through with miles walked,
Pockets threadbare from many a coin forked out
To a fellow troubadour, just another solitary soul,
Who wanders, peaceful and silent but for their instrument,
No wish but to share their music with the world.