Bisbee Opera — Image by kenne
he plays for us
on his passionate violin
as nobody listens
love torturing itself
to rise above conversations
lost in discontent
the limits of self-expression
reflected in the saloon window
there is no tragedy
in the old mining saloon
the smell of lavender
lingers from the ghosts
of the hotel whores
who are not indifferent
listening to lonely strings
turning into joyful cries
— kenne
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