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Day Twenty One: Foreshadowing?

I was out on a stroll,
Now usual, I suppose,
Yet today I found,
Another most curious view.

It was high up,
A rather peculiar looking cloud,
And it took looking twice,
For my mind to make a discernable shape.

In all its abstract beauty, 
I could see a bird
Flying out of a cloud of smoke
At least, that is what I perceived.

Twenty minutes later,
Is when my curious sight 
Comes to the corner of my eye.
I noticed that a bird was struck down.

It was not a natural death,
Far from it, really,
A few stray cats in the locality
Had caught it while hunting.

And upon looking at its dismembered corpse,
Hanging from a kitten's mouth,
I could only feel 
That I had seen that bird before.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Twenty: Eagles

Amongst the overflow of chatter between the unruly pigeons,
The call of an Eagle is so distinct.
In a mundane stroll devoid of much to think,
It heralds, finally, some excitement to the mind.

It spreads its majestic wings
Of span greater than most winged beasts, 
It has made itself ruler of these skies
By circling around its land and pride.

More often than not,
I can hear its call,
Yet not see its figure,
For it is above the clouds.

It screeches across its clear skies,
And glides over building and tree alike,
It seems to be hunting,
Chasing its luck like throwing dice,

Yet doesn't seem to find prey tonight.
And today, it might go to its nest
Without much in beak, but a few scraps.
After all, it is truly a miracle 
That food can still be considered available. 

Its life in this urban landscape,
Is a struggle through which it must persist,
Yet nature will not go astray,
And these eagles will find their way.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Eighteen: A Day Out

Oftentimes I find myself
Merely sulking in the depths of my sheets,
And it is just as often
I forget how good a day out feels.

A brisk walk to a mall,
An often overlooked luxury now,
Was a wonderful place to fall
Into the many spirals of conversation with friends around.

Minutes turned to hours
As we continually talked in peace,
And as we presented our views,
We caught up on flying bits of news.

Movies turned to books
And books to political outlooks
As we openly expressed, but also collectively felt.
Eventually, we will always find camaraderie.

At the end of the day,
With muscles stretched and spirit refreshed,
I returned,
Only to sulk in my bed again.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Seventeen: My Greatest Critic

To my greatest critic,
Both a friend and foe in life,
The one I am never rid of,
Whose words only fester in my mind.

You are verbally cruel and physically nonexistent.
Your words are like daggers thrown at my unfeeling sentiments,
Your thoughts like salt in a wound.
Yet I live and breathe with your advice.

For you have no voice of your own,
You must borrow mine
In hopes that your many insults
May find some life.

"What soulless work!"
You exclaimed once,
With such bitterness
One could mistake
Such expression for loathing.

Your thoughts could slit throats
Without a drop of blood spilling,
A curated silence due to their sharp nature.
Yet I would not be this way without your guidance.

Another time you pondered,
"What self-centered thoughts you have..."
Your intentions not malicious,
But only when I question the Self.

Brashly and bluntly you state,
The most personal of comments,
Locked in the dredges of the mind
Forever to remain although never voiced for another.

How could you get away with this?
The reader may wonder,
But the answer
Is much closer than what one believes.

To you, my critic,
You have choice but to 
Cling to me like a parasite
For you are too correct.

I am you,
And you are me.
There is no escape 
For either of us.






– Maya Desdemona

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Day Sixteen: The Night Sky

Does anyone else feel
That the Sky feels closer
The older we get?

My younger self would whine,
Seeing no stars in the then polluted sky.
Yet today I find,
Even constellations here shine.

The forever cloudy sky looks dim,
And often finds an inky undertone to lie in.
The Moon is perfectly halved,
Drowned in both Darkness and Light.

Today, I only happened 
To see the sky by chance,
But even this chance viewing
Danced within my inner eye.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Fifteen: Matchsticks Light A Thought

A most curious thought came upon me today.

Such a mundane action
Of lighting a candle
Is hardly what one would call
'Thought provoking'.

Yet on this day,
In this very hour,
I suppose I could blame the environment
For this unexpected conflict,
I find myself sympathising with a Matchstick.

One of many,
A most unremarkable one, at that,
That so happened to expire in my hand.

Once it served its purpose,
It was simply blown out without a second glance.
But today,
The mind lingered on an observation.

That matchstick continued to burn,
Albeit a dying ember now.
Yet all it took was a small tremor,
A flick of my wrist,
For that small light
To be snatched away.

How similar material objects are to their creators.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Fourteen: The Process Of Writing

It all starts with a thought.
Abundant yet never truly provocative.
It remains, neither developing nor dying,
And simply exists.

However, it never ends there.
That is only the beginning of this tale.
This half-baked thought, desperate to survive.
Struggles to grow.

It festers, clinging to the mind like a parasite.
It only continues
To grow and grow,
Till it can be avoided no more.

And curiosity,
Like that of a small child,
Envelopes you as you see it in a new light.

Glories of wars to behold
And stories untold 
Enraptures even the bold,
Incomparable to gold.

And in that wonder you find,
The words to describe it
Seem to just fall like leaves in autumn
Right out of your mouth.

In that moment,
The mind runs faster than the speed
Of both hand and sound,
Thrown out from the consciousness
Before disease infects it.

Thoughts that plague,
Thoughts that harm
And thoughts that are neither profound
Nor permissive
Reside in the same mind, 
Like an incurable illness.

Yet this mind will continue
To forever create and destroy,
To discover and explore,
Till the Light and Life of existence
Are no more.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Thirteen: Lorraine

Lorena, or sweet Lorraine,
As good-natured as the name portrays,
Victorious as Laurus nobilis' many triumphs claim.
Yet I do not know anyone with this name.

A careful balance between Darkness and Light,
She is indeed 'crowned with laurels' and sight,
Not only easy-going and bright,
But also forever wondering with delight.

Untouched by blight,
She is morally right,
For her ideals she will fight,
But don't worry, she won't bite.

A famous army,
Is what her name means,
Who is she?
My imaginings only take me so far.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Twelve: On The Night (Pt. 1)


I can never understand how
A person can associate the night,
With its peaceful presence,
The numerous stars,
The ever changing sky
And the lonesome moon with evil.

Maybe it is because the night holds us when we are most vulnerable,
And sees us for who we are.

It is only the Night which can see all our sins, and all our misgivings.
It is only in the Night, where the stoned face sheds a tear.
It is only in the Night, where the most paranoid shuts one eye. 
It is only the Night which shadows the wrongdoings of the human race.
It is only the Night which shadows a predator from its prey.
It is only the Night which can see our dreams and nightmares, a myriad of emotions Stemming from the plagues of the mind and the soul.

Maybe it is simply because, the Night always sees.

No, let us put this argument in perspective.

It is forced to see what the day does not.
It does not wish to cover the crimes of both man and not.
It cannot reach out to console those who find solace in it. 
The moon is merely the sun in disguise, 
Miserably looking upon what the man does behind its back.

– Maya Desdemona