The Violin
By Isobeckle

Opening it anew, seemed like a controversial breakthrough.

Sleek and smooth, no bump, no groove.

A golden varnish, seemed far too easy to tarnish.
Antique and full of youth, although glossy, although opuscule.
The instrument once fragile and tender in my hands, now
worn and a strong contender.
Now long familiar with the wooden scratch of the rosin that
seemed to latch.
The ebony body leaving callouses in my indexes.
It’s sweet sound filling the air.
It’s voice trilling that could turn into a blare.
A distinctive noise that i once knew, now given away to

someone new.
An instinctive nature to protect and ensue.

An instrument that i once had too.

Rain
By Isobeckle

A faint, falling, faceted familiarity.
Drops roll down my cheek, orbs of the sky.
Providing a shallow chance of clarity.
Clouds circle me, like a hungry fly.
Puddles forming at my ankles.
Webs of lost prosperity.
Each dewdrop having their own tale to tell.
No one will find the distant peculiarity.
Yet in the end all coming to befell upon me.
Why must their fate land here in the gutter.
Where there are no birds to flutter.
But this is not the end of their eternal utter purpose.
For they are stuck in a perpetual endless motion.
Unlike all of us, rain has no end.