Lava

Chair

Snow

Blue

Carpet

Paint

Jog

Tired

Where I Live

November 28, 2024

Where I live

Bikini season just ended

It will begin anew

On Monday

We have 28 words

For Sunny

We have no words

For Cold

Sea Turtles

Crossing the beaches

Is the largest

Spectator sport

Breakfast consists

Of crabs

And conch

With an OJ chaser

Unfortunately,

Amazon shipping rates

Are astronomical

But worth it

I see constellations

Few,

where I grew up,

Have ever witnessed

I feel breezes

Carrying songs of

Love and more love

Never once a piercing siren

I know my neighbors

They know me

We rely on each other

When adversity strikes

Each day is measured

By the quality of opportunity

Not the quantity presented

Or the quantity taken

I live on island time

Even though

I don’t live

On an island

I learned snorkeling

By trading away

Rush hour

And income tax season

Where I live

Is where you should live

I await your arrival

I’ll make it worth your while

When I see you, the world becomes bright,

My heart feels joy, everything feels right.

Your emerald eyes shine like a flame,

Your smile is bliss, nothing feels the same.

Your makeup so soft, like morning light,

Gentle and perfect, a lovely sight.

The scent of your perfume, a floral breeze,

Enchanting and sweet, it puts me at ease.

You're graceful, like the morning air,

So wise and charming, beyond compare.

You captivate me, my heart’s undone,

And I’m so deeply in love with you, the one!

© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

Standing in the rain

Drizzle to deluge

Panhandling

To deep sea fishing

For souls

Harvesting soggy morsels

Of philosophical discourse

Colored with

Blue light specials

Worn by beings

Dancing on the far shore

Soaked with angst

In the watery garden

Absurdly harvesting outcomes

In this existential café

The Agony of Defeat

November 26, 2024

Which would you rather have?

The knowledge that these feet (I could not fit both feet in the space provided) were earned through continuous labor for decades.

Or?

The knowledge that the grandiose story you told of how these feet appeared is not true.

Truth has both a purpose and a result. Eventually, someone will discover the truth.

Let them verify the veracity of your claim.

Or,

Let them validate the charges against your character.

The choice is yours.

Choose wisely.

You truly never know how sick you've become until you've been cured. The complications behind the interludes and brumes of introspection beseech order, entwined in a sense of desire and purpose. If you can find that within yourself - great. Not many do. But when you can find that bliss and structure within another, it sets an alchemical reaction for both of you to reach for the stars, to catch each other when the other floats in the nebula of their uncertainty. You make it certain in their head that everything will be alright, and that all it takes is one step forward to be greater than the you that took the last.

Too Close to Dylan

November 25, 2024

Friends and lovers

From across the way

Depend on my charity

Holding alliances

Across the days

Is quite the rarity

From soothsayers told to arrive

But never held to a vow

I am sunburned from deceit

From my shoulders to my brow

The pain in my face

Mirrors the wounds of my heart

I died with each attack

From those espousing love

As the knife plunges deeper

And the hilt bruises my back

Then my ego, then my pride

All going before the fall

I will suffer on the street

But I’ll get by somehow

My songs fall silent in the night

Absorbed by ether rings

They are too long

They are too short

They speak of silly things

My songs hide within the breezes

On days I took my stings

But, I know I will succeed

And fly on gossamer wings

A pain no one

Understands

Like an itch

You can’t scratch

A problem no one

Wants to face

Yet I must deal with it

On a day to day

Minute by minute

Unrelenting basis

It’s my own fault

Good decision

Bad decision

That’s inconsequential

As the years pile on

The self inflicted

Soul crushing pain

Only I can feel

I have become

Devoid of hope

One would think

There is no

Foreseeable solution

Other than escape

But I’m no coward

And as Camus said

“…in the end

one needs more courage

to live than to

kill himself.”

Within the lucidity

Of my existence

The only logical choice

In an absurd life

Is to suffer

The consequences

Of my choices

The self proclaimed elites

Laugh at us

And our petty ways

Ego and greed

Rule our minds

And we consistently engage

In ritualized homicide

Referring to ourselves

As conquerors of men

Professing our fealty

To murder incorporated

War drums beat

With the drips of bloodshed

Savagery increases

Humanity fades

Atrocities proliferate

Innocence is obliterated

The breaking point

Has been achieved

Our descent into madness

Is now complete

Stare into a mirror long enough, it won't be your reflection you stare at any longer. It'll be every aberration in your soul, like the chips and cuts lacerating the mahogany. Narcissus is within us all in semblances of marks incising an idyllic past set ablaze along the decomposing surface by the absence of a voice, only eyes to watch the flame kindle in the night, and ears to hear the mind's whistles ululate to the grievance, whereof it only exacerbates with time, and leverage. It's become easy to see the foibles beneath my exterior, my body but a weathered tabernacle, a plate of armor of which I toil on my back, but a needless burden nonetheless.

All my life I've been a glib gladiator, a heart-feigned logomachian whose hid behind the shield of his sphere of influence to create feigned connections to his own volition, stubbornly latching his gnarled fingers & unkempt nails onto the notion like pearls that all things that are valuable require reciprocation correspondent to said value, and, without it, there was no validation in growing those true friendships. There was no reason or room for change. So.. I faithfully let a lie sit there festering with the pus of malignancy.

The conjoined faces of janus harness time in assemblage, spurred by the moving of lips, the passage of the soul - one pair, as stirring as the confluence of inlets amidst a tsunami; the other, as breathtaking as the coruscations of pops and crackles as fireworks laminate the skies in tenors of extravaganza.

So why by an hour in, when the saccades in my eyes have slowed and my attention's eroded to the acclimations of my head, can't I help but smile?

Maybe I am going crazy.