Ovi poetry

Suddenly, his foot
collided with something solid
a piano.
Its keys coated in dust,
its strings silent
forgotten.

Trembling fingers,
he traced the contours
of the instrument,
his memories
intertwining
its melodies.

He remembered
the days
his world shattered,
the days he was
locked away
a child in a labyrinth
of darkness.

He remembered
the sound
of his own heartbeat
echoing against the walls,
the taste of fear
lingering on his tongue
as he cried out for salvation.

But salvation never came,
and in the depths of such despair
he found his voice.
a tick in the close of the arm
a kiss of tone
the harmony of delusion’s opera.

He sang to the darkness,
his melodies a beacon
of despair in a sea of
liquid expectation
and the waiting
for the man,
3000 kroner in hand.

Freja wrote a song,
a song, she said,
about the time
she was locked in.

A song about
echoes of her past
the light that guided
her apparition back home.

And as her voice
soared into the night,
it carried with it
a message of despair
message that no matter
how far the light seems,
there is always
something
waiting to be found.

A door perhaps.

In the heart of a bustling city,
where neon lights dance
against the canvas of
the night sky,
exists a place
veiled in shadows.

An old building,
forgotten by time,
walls full of secrets
all whispered by the wind.

Within this relic
lived a woman no name needed,
whose soul resonated
the melancholy melodies
of the forgotten.

The cafe buzzed with conversation,
a cacophony of laughter,
clinking coffee cups;
still her shadow was cloaked in the corner
on the other side of the street.

Huddled in dim shades,
she felt the warmth of
her memories slip away;
they did little to dispel the chill
that settled around her soul.

Her worn idleness lay forgotten,
the words blurring into
an incomprehensible mess;
families sharing plates of pastries,
friends divide flavours.

Her gaze drifted to a new red spot
bobbing among many others in her arm,
a stark contrast to the joyous chatter cross the road.
It seemed to mock her,
a symbol of  forbidden celebration.

A reminder of her isolation,
sight of escaped sighs,
barely audible over murky delusions;
Yet, amidst all the solitude,
a flicker of defiance.

In the quiet act of creation,
she found a solace,
a connection,
a way to belong,
even in her red spot solitude.

Carina was never that kind of gal,
never to weep large and
never do in public.
So it took everybody aback
when flabby tears fell everywhere
over that queer situation.

In the first place,
Carina had never had it good.
She had never made money.
She had never had wealth.
She had never seen new hairstyle
or mirror her lipstick colours.

She had never before
had a chance to live
like a slick-magazine mannequin,
with time to play tennis,
ride and have cool butter sandwiches
but then she felt it once.

There was a swimming pool,
near the place she once lived,
ten steps away from
the apartment door.
A borrowed sofa in a led life,
two random contacts and a grief.

Of course, a private pool,
which was fine with Carina,
cause most of the people she knew
didn’t even have the chance to see a pool.
She could sit in the common outing and watch
people drink their martinis and milk.

Naturally, she could not rate all this,
nor be part, just put up as long it lasted.
Like the old man used to say,
life is full of seconds,
rarely some of them happy.
There is no happiness for us poor.

Carina lived a life sore and she
would have gone earlier to sleep
but this dream was a swimming pool alive
and kept her for day and the next
and the next till the day Carina slept for good,
herself swimming in a pool of blood.

You see son,
passageways of days
go through dark doubts
and confusion over
personal conflicts.

You see son
there are no awards,
no guidelines,
no security in life,
only intimidations.

You see son,
the ride is long
in its meaninglessness
and unbeaten through
its thorny clearance.

You see son
frustrations curse the course
and loss the broken thoughts,
the temptations,
the terrible negations.  

You see son,
the time of divinity,
the guillotine of finality
the moment to face
actuality never comes.

You see son
there is no morality
to the fact that
you just float away
in a stream never clean.

You see son
time in the end
runs out of
wavers and doubt,
an obstruction of choice,
while death awaits.

Rain lashed against the fire escape,
I know where you’re hiding.
The metallic clang echoes
in the narrow alley and
I can hear your heart beating.

Rain or shine, your heart is still beating lonely.
The cracked pavement stretched
beneath a canopy of fire escapes,
their rusted railings like
skeletal fingers clawing at the twilight sky.

Amidst all the overflowing dumpsters
and the peeling paint,
your heart still beats.
A bloody tomcat with a torn soul
and a perpetually grumpy expression.

She wasn’t always a resident
of this forgotten world.
She used to chase butterflies in a sun-drenched garden,
purring like a rusty engine
on a lap filled with warmth.

But that was another life, before the expulsion came.
The alley held no butterflies,
only the scuttling of unseen creatures
and the occasional drunkard stumbling
through on their way somewhere else.

She is a heart of a bloody tomcat
with a torn soul and a perpetually
grumpy expression.

A forgotten memory of
butterflies in a sun-drenched garden.

The transformation immediate.
A vibrant flame erupted from the ash,
chasing away the encroaching shadows.

Panic seized apathy’s inhabitants.
The familiar, emotionless world
was being challenged.

They tried to extinguish the flame,
hurling barbs of doubt
and apathy.

But ash held firm.
The fire within grew stronger,
fuelled by the forgotten dreams of the world.

It spread, flickering at first,
but then catching on
in the hearts of others.

A blacksmith, long resigned to cold metal,
felt the heat of inspiration and
began to forge anew.

An artist,
brush long dormant,
felt the passion to create.

The fire raged,
not with destruction,
but with the promise of rebirth.

As the flames danced,
casting flickering warmth on the land,
apathy began to melt away.

Fear remained.

Fear gnawed at him,
he could hear the shriek.
Telling on someone felt wrong
but the injustice simmered,
especially since
this somebody was plain him.
The crime was there
the wound open.

Grandpa always said,
“Do the right thing.”
So, with a deep breath,
he stood outside the imposing
brick building
took a deep breath and
admitted himself.
Wounds should heal.

The potentials were bright, good family,
devoted Christians and all that.
The mother down to earth
the father had working.

Then terminality came,
no permits discussed,
perceptions irrelevant,
devices almost sensible,
no clear anticipations.

Expectations superseded,
required to reminisce the last kiss.
Lust numb in acquisition for survival,
the good family,
the devoted Christians
became a fade remembrance had to remake,
surfacing only in dark flashes of desperation.

The clocks are clicking,
A reminder of the last trail to fondle dust.