Troubadour

A violinist to his
Fingertips ~ he
Draws me in ~
And captivates me ~

The yearning in the
Notes ~ that pour forth
From his instrument ~
Warms my chilly bones ~

For of them all it is
The violin that slays me ~
There is some haunting
Quality in its strings ~

I think that violins
Must be ~ where
The purist souls go ~
When they die ~