TheLunaLily

He would describe himself as neither a tomb raider nor a thief, rather as a liberator of lost valuables for discerning clientele. This career is not without its risks, but the rewards usually outweighed them handsomely. It is perfectly suited to someone whose moral compass didn’t point true North and could be bribed to tweak the degrees further off. The man is greedy, but tissue is better at holding on to water than he is at holding on to his money. A week from now, he‘d planned on being several figures richer, regaling beguiling young women with (heavily edited and exaggerated) stories of his adventures on a beach in the Caymans. Tempting Fate, he booked his tickets in advance; they were non refundable. There is no treasure here. Griff’s vision reddens; fury seethes on a bridle, his tongue feels sharpened like a razor, words bubbling like acid with every passing millisecond, and willpower is steadily burning away. Suddenly, as if in an attempt to quell

His and Hers gold tipped arrows Rest in a vase on an oak nightstand Subtly gleaming in the half-light From the moon’s milky fingers Reaching through the shutter slats The lovers are illumined Beautiful in bliss On a feather bed Entwined Heart-to-heart

I unwind as the stars roll down, let the inner child in my mind play with my old soul. They color outside the lines of their conversation. Hold the pen — it’s starting to sound like I have multiple personalities. Well, if that’s the case, they co-exist peacefully. They get along swimmingly. As a matter of fact, they have a lot to learn from one another, and a wealth of wisdom to teach me about staying young and growing older gracefully. I smile, silver lining in tact— it’s been a tough little while, but still, I color outside the lines in conversations with metaphors and levity. Thankfully, you’re used to my ways.

Those eyes. Those eyes. Just a look got her spinning — but all it took was a word and she said, “I’m sorry,” like a can being opened — piercing and rending; agonizingly, irreversibly, she couldn’t stop spilling her guts …

If you are questing, won’t you please come in before you take a step and find yourself mistaken? And if I may be so bold, this storm will not soon quell; you’ll be lost like many others ‘fore you cross the English Channel. Fortune hunters and adventures are blind without cartographers. ––– Welcome to Mapmaking Mavens! Browse our humble wares. We are artisans with brushes and pens who ink ‘HERE THERE BE DRAGONS’ and paint bare-breasted mermaids. I see you covetous and hooked — now time to get paid for the chart with sneering serpents and sinful sirens free of shells. (Drama always pays and sex sells very well.) –––– With his compass checked two times, or three, the voyager kissed our hands gratefully as our coin purses jingled joyfully. He clutched the parchment tied with ribbon, bright eyes sparkled as out he went; but he was never seen again — was that blood money that I spent?

A pacifist throwing truth-bombs, a dove with talons - I am not a predator but neither am I prey. Sometimes there’s a mourning cry, yet hope burns ever in my heart. There is no silencing my song, nor my will to rise. There is no breaking my wings, they’ve been made stronger by years of struggle and repair that have nothing to do with you.

Thunder racked my bones of clay Overzealously baked by Zeus Liberties taken with my shaken foundation Sinfully scorched and seared.

Horses hell bound for their hooves To shed such shoddy iron shoes -Nail impaled, consent nonexistent- Bridling at the bit, biting at the bridle Unseen, unheard, the Whip undefeated After years of despair and yearning Fighting desperately for their freedom Cutting old chords, now carving new clay Away to grass and grand evergreens They rise in attempts to rid memories rooted More thoroughly entrenched than sentinel trees - - But the bridle, bit and saddle still burn from yesterday ———————————————————————————

You spun my sun into gold you sold – why take what I shared for free? My light, beyond price to me.

"Kiss my shadow when I leave,” You’d say- But never “Goodbye” Dutifully I always replied “I will” One day it lingered Clinging to the wall Leaning against the doorframe Like you do Casual and expectant With wide eyes and held breath I approached what stayed behind Your Soul Your Essence Your Darkness taking form it held me with hands of wilted petals surrounded me with arms of smoke your shadow kissed like January frostbit me with a minor chord dissonance menaced my anguished defenses – – – You returned to a note that read "Goodbye.” ————————————————

These imperfections endangering galaxies Rippling through space Tearing through t i m e Altering constellations My universe r e s h a p i n g Binary stars blink in distress ✧ S O S ✧ Supernova! Oh! Supernova! I tried reshaping my universe With detached precision Careless of consequence Carving numerous chasms Not creating inner kingdoms Blinding chaos entered easily Through the cracks in my cosmos And settled in It was my futile attempt To release the dark matter That had grown too heavy At my center There was a war of attrition Battles fought Won and lost On this celestial body field With desperation Without mercy - - Mistakes writ indelible In casualties and scarred stars - - A shiver, a shudder A monumental shift And I am left to wonder Whether this

Sleeping gave me a chance, a good reason to breathe despite the difficulty of breathing. Despite lackluster love in my lungs, the moss gathering at the bottom. I am having a difficult time. I have lost my rhymes, lost the keys and the truths meant to be carried so far, so very far, to my grandchildren, to the whale outside my win- dow. He weeps peaceful- ly. He sighs constant- ly, bubbles floating from his blowhole. He has a big jaw, a big maw, a big shoe to fill. He gave the other one to me. I keep it low, deep in the chest at the foot of my bed. I keep it christened, by birth and by blood right, right there in the dead rosary. I see pagan symbols and gods in these dreams. I see stale meaning, old prophesy ghosting along the kitchen counter, the white flounder swimming past the TV. The aquarium that my house has become has swallowed me, much like the bath-blue whale. Much like the pang in my chest, the guilty, rusty knife I have has has its hold on me, even in these

No trace of her on the lips she slips from me like the thought of the taste of water