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Olivia Kent Apr 2020
I have a penthouse apartment in the back of beyond.
It's in the distance.
Painted on a skyline,
Silhouetted in ebony black.
It's in another city,
I know not where.
It has darkness and sorrow,

Maybe finding it is attainable.
A raven, flies over somewhere.
Potent portent of doom,

I invented it as I'm sat in my room.
Boredom taking hold.
It's being bold,
So am I.

How dare it I ask,
I ask myself.
I ask you?

I'm willing to view in the eye of my wild mind,
A future filled passion, that we all shall find.

We'll catch a ball.
A perfect globe.
Dress it with high fashion.
Caress it with love.
The world the wonder,
Wearing nowt except a protective verdant glove.

We will arise.
Open your eyes.
See beyond the darkness.
For there will surely be light.

Olivia Kent Apr 2020
Apocalyptic pockets, emptying their sorrow,
Careful pockets filled with love abound.
Selfless pockets, astounding,
Pockets, fragile pockets.
Hiding indoors, make not a sound.
Advice falling on ears that hear now.
No street walking.
Stay out of the shop.
Reduction in numbers soon,
Maybe tomorrow,
Or the day after.
These darkened moments will stop.
They must,
Fill up your metaphoric pockets, with unreal angel dust.
As only you must!
Olivia Kent Apr 2020
All afternoon, sat in my vitually empty room.
My love mutt curled up beside me like a snorting fire free dragon.
Every so often, she will spring into early summer action, telling the garden birds to *******.
After her crazy mouthy attack, she curls up and goes back into a deep sleep.
I peep at her chest, it's rising comfortably now

Most, of the moments I spend with her are just mellow,chilled.

Watching the garden birds flitting freely.
Those birds, ignorant in their sundance.
No rhyme, no reason.
A brief divebomb of sorts, snicking at birdseed in a metal tub.

Mrs Mutt,
She toodles out for a twinkle.
No birds about now,
I guess they're skipping out.
Unused to the enforced tranquility.

"Praise be."
Dem boids be free.

Our time it shall come again.
For now, indoors we must be.
Must stay.
Creativity and passion,
Without exit, so it must be.
Olivia Kent Apr 2020
We lived a bit,
We celebrated the god of the sun...oooh Raa,
We sat in our houses, aware of the mouses,
We watched birds through the patio doors.
We cheered, that the goddess is here smiling.
She is most welcome.
Life goes on regardless,
But we sit indoors blooming in our own ways.
For we need to.
We must.
P.s. Raa was a Male deity, Eyptian Sun God,
I'm just weird thinking of the sun as a Goddess,
She's just glorious in my bizarre way out way x
I know the plural of mouse  is mice...mouse was just x
Olivia Kent Dec 2017
Post person or whatever.
Always turning up.
Regardless of the weather
I feel for the postie upon this chilly day.
Relied upon to bring with him, all Christmas in his sack.
Bringing bills and festive notes from Southampton to John'O'Groats.
No suprise from Santa Claus.
Just a chilly postman going to the doors.
Through rain and snow the postman goes.
Trotting with his smile intact.
Waiting for Christmas to come around again.
His mailbag always laden, that's a fact for sure.
I wonder when the day of e-cards supercede.
The postman may redundant, not coming to my door!
Thank you post person,
You do a vital job.
Olivia Kent Nov 2017
Fairies feel the winter chill,
The cold does make them ill,
Some fellow being kindly ,gave them spirits of his own.
The fairy folk are staggering,rolling through the trees.
Their noses run incessantly.
Hear them fairies sneeze.
They're making an awful lot of noise.
This bunch of drunken fairies are but ,raucous girls and boys.
They have had a huge amount of fun but the headaches that follow the whiskey,mean they're hiding from the sun.
Lovely little creatures strolled into the shop.
Needed analgesia to make these headaches stop.
The doctor couldn't see them.
He didn't have the time.
The secretary for human health, well he can't treat poorly fairies as he doesn't have the wealth.
Lets hope the fairies settle and get better very soon,
Fairies only party once in a blue moon.
Olivia Kent Nov 2017
The fields are stained with red, not whine.
The fields cry loudly without harmony.
The air is filled with violence,
Painting the air in shades of blue and black.
Onwards they go, no turning back.
An odd bird, bedraggled by the passing bullets at speed.
Uncertain future awaits.
Blinded by the flashes of the fighting.
An encore,
And another.
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