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Jun 2022 · 132
A wanting ache
Olivia V Jun 2022
It is not because I cannot have you,
that I still want you.

But rather, it is because I still want you,
but cannot have you,
that causes me such pain.
Apr 2021 · 660
a continuum.
Olivia V Apr 2021
If I consider each day, as a moment in time,
and each moment part of a continuum,
then the fear of time and its passing,
has no hold on me.
For it becomes akin to my breath.
each second flows on from the one,
the many, the countless,
that came before this one.
I am swept up in how gentle
a passing life can be.
So long as I do not try,
to hold onto time
too tightly.
Olivia V Jan 2021
there is forgiveness in the mornings,
before the daylight breaks,
before the shadows - grays and blues -
are lightly kissed awake.

there is forgiveness in the mornings,
within my heart and mind,
which still so gently clasp at sleep,
my thoughts still undefined.

there is forgiveness in the mornings,
when all is still and right,
for those of us who'd found no peace,
and had pleaded with the night.
Oct 2020 · 74
a fire hazard
Olivia V Oct 2020
I strike a match

so I may adore the untamed fierceness

of the flame‘s brief life.

I do this each day

to remind myself of what once burned within me.

I do this each day

to remind myself that even a spark

can be a fire hazard.
Sep 2019 · 162
my hometown is on fire
Olivia V Sep 2019
as the trees are burning,
so too are the memories
i made as a child.

each are now embers,
glowing and fragile.
but i cannot hold them,
and so i only watch,
until they are but ash.
Jun 2019 · 822
Haiku #3
Olivia V Jun 2019
Moonlight on pale skin
Soft lips part in desire
Lovers in the night
Jun 2019 · 172
the city
Olivia V Jun 2019
her soul
never at peace
in the city where noise
does not cease
May 2018 · 503
Within a dark wood
Olivia V May 2018
within a dark wood, no sound could be heard,
no rustle or leaf, nor chorus of bird.
though through thickets of thorn, and tangle of vine,
a traveller long lost, settled down by a pine.

it was then that the trees, and brambles beneath,
twisted their branches and made him his wreath.
a crown of late thorns, to place on his head,
by the exact moment, in which he was dead.

the traveller had wandered, for days through this grove,
mistook it for where there'd been buried a trove.
many had done so, the young and the old,
naïve in their search, for fairy-tale gold.

asleep on the fallen, both leaves and past men,
our traveller breathed once, then no more than ten.
his lungs filled with scarlet, his blood running thick,
from poisons and toxins of berries he'd picked.

as night came to banish, the warmth of the sun,
his corpse slowly stiffened, decay then begun.
what of his soul, his spirit, you wonder?
encased by his bones, shall never float yonder.

no other remembers, this story I've told,
long lost in myth and legends of old.
his death was not pleasant, nor lacking in strife,
it felt oh so sweet, to steal that man's life.

for I was the wood, that he'd set eyes upon,
to plunder and pillage, and lay his hands on.
but blind from desire, for coffers of gold,
the man did not witness, his follies unfold.

my treasure's not buried, but strewn all around,
if only one glances, to see nature abound.
the man had such fortune, in the palm of his hand,
but thought nothing of it, of cherished wood-land.

although he still lies here, enveloped in moss,
his death is not tragic, don't mourn for this loss.
a traveller he was, perhaps you are too,
but his soul was crook'd, his values askew.

oh yes he was selfish, and now he is mine,
his body 's held tight, for my roots to enshrine.
the lesson dear reader, I ask you to heed,
is that misfortune awaits, all men filled with greed.
Sep 2017 · 293
Olivia V Sep 2017
sunshine filters through emerald leaves.
her body, a golden dune.
warmth melts through her skin.
her chest, rising and falling
with the passing day.
she expands and dissolves into infinity.
Aug 2017 · 1.3k
Olivia V Aug 2017
softly, she weeps
warm tears falling,
tracing her contours.
a breeze, so soft,
moves through her.
it's silent tonight,
and so is she.

tendrils of green,
sway above her.
a dance of despair,
of solace and sadness.
and she joins
and moves with the wind.

she thinks and she thinks,
of ephemeral air.
how it stirs and caresses,
then dissipates and departs,
only to sweep across mountains and valleys.

she wishes to be,
no more than a breeze.
gentle but strong,
to be felt by all yet seen by none.

the willow above,
with its weeping green,
grazes her cheeks,
and beckons her gently
to join with those currents,
in their invisible journey.

and so her body fades,
and she leans to the tree,
the drapery of leaves
enfolding her like a lover.

if one were to glance
at the willow tree,
they would see a girl no longer there
would see only tendrils of green,
swaying in the wake of some wind.

in her place,
there is now a silent emptiness.
and the willow still weeps
with joy for her freedom,
in despair that she's gone.
Aug 2017 · 383
Don't trust
Olivia V Aug 2017
read till end*

watch the magic man
how he weaves his hands
it's an illusion and a trick
watch carefully, be quick

he deceives us all
but keeps you in such thrall
this enigmatic show
it ebbs and it flows

now the day fades to black
it's silent...look back
what's happened? oh're now all alone
you shiver right through, deep down to your bones

it's just you and him
the cold night's turned grim
his deception has fooled you
what's real, what's true?

look up and see, that he meets your stare
a smile of crimson, a cruel ****** tear
he twists in his hands, an object of malice
so sharp one slice, would render you bloodless

now slowly, so slowly please turn away
try to run, and please try to pray
for still he will find you, in the dead of this night
so don't think you're safe, don't leave the light

magician no more, he's an eater of souls
he'll skin you and string you up over hot coals
make haste, run quickly, my sweet little girl
my moon will guide you, a luminous pearl

you hear him and feel him, just over your shoulder
but I will be waiting - run faster, be bolder
duck behind corners and hide between nooks
think of the stories, you read in your books

of ladies so brave, with hearts full of fires
who live in a world of deceivers and liars
a web of confusion, I ask you to weave
pull all the tricks, right out of your sleeve

he tricked you, sweet flower
dishonesty: his power.
so take it, embrace it, as if it is yours
destroy all his plans, my small saboteur

safety I promise, if you beat the deceiver
he'll wither and rot and be taken by fever
oh darling don't fret, don't stumble and cry
for what bad could come, of one little lie?
The idea of this poem, started when I was reading a book called “The Night Circus”. I thought about how children are always told not to lie, or to even spin the truth, because it will end in pain for them and that it is not ‘the right thing to do’. We grow up being told not to be dishonest - and yet somehow, become adults who do it almost compulsively. The girl is the innocence, and the magician the world that we, as children, were once entranced by and convinced was exactly as it seemed - only to discover that it can be full of scorn and evil and seems to be out to get us. The voice that speaks to the girl, is the voice of a mother, and she tells the girl to use the magicians’ deception against him – that is to say that she loses her innocence and turns to his cruel tricks in order to survive; she herself needs lies, and being cunning becomes a necessity. In this world, we too must be cunning and occasionally deceptive if we want to get the outcome we seek.
The ending, by asking, “what bad could come of one little lie?”, is supposed to draw the reader to the insight of a full circle - that the man himself embodied lies and was cruel and had no love even for the innocent – so what bad could come? Is that we begin only to know how to be liars and to deceive and that we believe it is the only way to get ahead in this world. Like the magician did.
He has no care for what his deceptions do - that they shatter the previous joy and beauty of what the girl thought she knew.
This poem was inspired because I hope it does make one wonder if we lie to protect ourselves or to intentionally harm others to get ahead. There are two sides to each story, and if I flipped this poem, it would be form the magicians perspective – the perspective of someone so corrupted by his web of lies, that it is now all he knows.
Aug 2017 · 172
Haiku #2
Olivia V Aug 2017
She only listens
And holds her breath in silence
A ghost, a shadow
Aug 2017 · 223
Olivia V Aug 2017
There are two sorts of shadows in this world.
The shadows at night that are the mere inky blackness of objects
and the spaces between them,
and these are not shadows to be feared.
These are the shadows you know and feel comfortable with
and which do not prickle your skin or hitch your breath.
The other shadows however, the ones which elicit such a reaction, these are the shadows you should fear.
They have a presence, an omniscience and they watch you.
If you walk into your room tonight and feel your stomach tighten, and now the prickle along your skin, is not from the cold,
or should you feel that the quiet of your house is not an empty one
but one which is waiting, leaden and strange,
I suggest, dear reader, that you leave.
Do not peer into the corner.
Do not shake your head and convince yourself
that all is as it should be.
For the shadows which watch are the shadows which ****.
And tonight, you have every chance of finding one.
Aug 2017 · 175
Haiku #1
Olivia V Aug 2017
Lay in silent wait
Watching strangers pass me by
Are they scared like me?
Aug 2017 · 184
Graceless Lady
Olivia V Aug 2017
There is sanctity in dance, in the movement of the soul.
But a woman who dances, in light of dark sin
Has no place dancing on church grounds.

She dances barefoot, on moon lit marble floors
Her feet touch the ground for the slightest of moments
She floats and she sways, with her head tilted back
and her lips part open, in sinful relief.

No music plays
No candles are lit
There is no audience.

The lady in red, continues to dance
Ceaselessly until, her feet crack and bleed.
Until her blood mixes and mingles, with the blood of the dead

She dances
and dances
Yet no music plays

But through the sunrise, and longer than day
she moves with her grace, to dance for the dead
until she herself crumbles, bleeding deep red
dance, death, blood, fantasy

— The End —