Ovi poetry

Please sit next to me, she said.
I could do with some company.
It’s the sound of the voice that I miss more
please do talk to me, she begged,
her voice, a dry rasp against the sterile air,
held a tremor that tugged at my heart.

Her fingers, like gnarled branches,
gripped the chipped cup by her bedside.
Her face, etched with the map of a run-down life,
impossibly ancient under the harsh fluorescent lights.
A cough, a dry rasp in the sterile air,
a weathered symphony of time and pain’s embrace.

I’d never saw her before, in this place,
a panorama of buzzing drunken chaos,
she was an island of stillness.
The others, vibrant and noisy, swearing and shouting
were separated from her by an invisible gulf of tears.
In this place, where pity often meant absence,
she was an anomaly.

A strange mix of emotions washed over me,
shame, unease, a flicker of morbid curiosity.
Here she was, perched precariously on the edge of life,
and the spectre of death hung heavy in the air.
It wasn’t a violent demise she feared, but a silent one,
a fading away with no human connection to anchor her.

She didn’t speak again,
her gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the skylight.
Instead, she raised the bottle to her lips once more,
draining the poisonous amber liquid within.
Each deliberate sip felt like a final act,
a desperate clinging to the so few vestiges of her life.

One night, as you performed
with all the celestial spheres,
a figure emerged from the swirling mist.
This one wasn’t shrouded in despair.
His eyes held a knowing glint,
and a smile played on his lips,
like a half-remembered melody.

“An impressive display,” he said,
his voice a soothing murmur like wind chimes on a deserted beach. 
“But the flame feeds on more than defiance. Does it not yearn for something more?”

You stared, mesmerized. 
“Who are you?” you whispered,
the question catching in your throat.

“A fellow traveller,” he replied, stepping closer.
“One who has danced with both light and shadow.”

He gestured towards the flame on your palm.
“Your fire burns for its own sake,
a beautiful rebellion, but a lonely one. 
Let it touch another heart,
ignite a spark within another soul.
It might just be the sunrise you never expected.”

His words hung heavy in the air,
a challenge and a promise. 
You looked at the faces in the mist,
their yearning mirroring your own. 

A slow smile,
like the first bloom on a barren winter branch,
graced your lips.
You lifted your hand,
the defiant flame hovering between you and the crowd.
This time, the invitation wasn’t one of spectacle, but of connection.

The city lights blurred as we sped through the night.
The woman behind the wheel, her name Malady,
glanced back with a wink.
“Good taste in drivers, huh?” she chuckled.
I grinned, feeling warmth spread through me.

“Where to?” She asked. “The best bourbon in town, I said
“Thought you might be feeling that way,” she said.
“There’s this great little place I know…”
Her voice trailed off as she started the engine, the car humming to life.
“Let’s go quench that bourbon appetite, shall we?”

We pulled up to a bar unlike any I’d seen.
A crooked, neon sign glowed in the shape of a lopsided melon,
casting a cheerful orange hue on the weathered brick facade.
“The Melon Patch?” I questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Malady winked again,
her smile as infectious as the bar’s quirky sign.
“This is where bourbon dreams come true.”
She shut off the engine.
“Consider it a bonus for mentioning good taste.” 

Intrigued, I paid the fare.
Before I could protest, Malady hopped out,
her heels clicking a happy rhythm on the sidewalk.
“One drink,” she declared, throwing an arm
around my shoulder, “on the house.”

The door of the Melon Patch swung open,
revealing a haze of amber light and the sweet,
heady aroma of aged bourbon.
Stepping inside, a warmth,
both literal and welcoming, washed over me.

This, I had a feeling,
was the start of a night I would soon forgive but never forget.

Cosmos felt strangely muted,
vibrant hues of life dulled to a sombre gray,
and memories flicker like dying embers
in the hearth of my soul;
conversations now hung heavy in the air
unsaid, unheard, unread.

Clocks’ silence become an unwelcome companion,
the void echoed with an unbearable hollowness
guilt, a viper with a venomous bite,
coil around my heart;
why wasn’t I there?
How far is faraway?

The flame, rogue and ember
stolen from a forgotten dream,
danced a defiant leap on your palm.
It flickered, not with the golden desperation of a dying star,
but with a mocking, mischievous twist.
It burned for no audience, beholden to no celestial script. 
This was your fire, and its defiance
mirrored the chaos swirling within you.

Sunsets, those glorious displays of surrender,
were an anathema to your spirit.
You craved the perpetual twilight,
the luminal space where shadows stretched long
and the ordinary morphed into the fantastical.
Under the perpetual hum of a half-lit sky, you thrived.

Your acts, cacophony of colour and sound,
weapons against the encroaching tedium of existence.
You juggled luminous spheres that pulsed
with the rhythm of a forgotten language.
You spun tales where clocks melted
and teacups sprouted wings.
Laughter, like startled birds, would erupt from the crowd,
a fleeting symphony in the face of the absurd.

But for all your vibrancy,
an air of melancholy clung to you.
Disarming as your performances might be,
there was a hollowness
that resonated you beneath the surface.
It was the echo of a promise unfulfilled,
a yearning for a connection you couldn’t quite grasp.

The mist, ever-present, swirled around you,
a congregation of lost souls drawn
by the erratic light of your flame.
Faces, etched with the weariness of unfulfilled dreams,
peered out from the swirling vapour.

You recognized them
a failed poet with verses that crumbled to dust,
a once-celebrated painter whose brush now painted only silence,
a young dancer whose steps were lost in the labyrinth of despair.

Her heartstrings
entwined with the echoes
of her past.
She found solace
in abandoned rooms
of the empty building.

Where the silence
spoke volumes
and darkness was
only a companion.

Yet, there was one room
she dared not enter
a room shrouded in darkness,
its door sealed shut
for memories
too painful to confront.

But on a fateful night,
curiosity lured her into
forbidden chamber.
With trembling hands,
she turned the rusted handle,
the hinges groaning in protest
the door creaked open.

Darkness enveloped her
like a suffocating cloak,
swallowing her whole
as she stepped into the abyss.

The air was heavy
with the scent of dust
and decay,
her heart pounded
against her ribcage
like a caged bird
desperate for freedom.

She groped in the darkness,
her fingers brushing against the cold,
rough walls as she ventured
deeper into the unknown.
freedom seemed so farfetched
over the mountain happiness lies.

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.