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Day Eleven: A Sailor’s Tale

The sailor is one with stories plentiful,
Ranging from Daring escapes to Romantic escapades.
Their only constant,
I suppose, would be the free wandering
Of the jolly old sailor himself.

“For I was thrown from Untruthful shores,
Left in the mercy of
The Collector of Souls,
Its cruel torrents continue to rage,
Leaving my sailin’ self
With a gruelling task at the Doors of Fate.”

He vividly paints the scene,
Detailed to an extent
You would think it was just yesterday
His triumph or tragedy was finished.

“Following the Marine path,
My crumbling heart hath
Stymied the Crimson wrath.”

His Colloquial accent is distinct,
Somehow adding to his narrating style,
With nuanced details one would never notice
Lest one is actually there.

“For I must walk this path alone,
Torment for the crimes for which I atone.”

As authentic as it feels,
None of it is real,
As I so begrudgingly got him to spill
One day, when he was drunk.

He told me,
“These sins are not my own,
A wild imagining, if anything,
Of a life lost to the sands of Time.”

Whose is this life story?
Even the old sailor does not know.
But the unknown soul was immortalised,
Never to be forgotten for their deeds.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Ten: Always

Does anyone else wonder,
How permanent 'Always' is?

"I will always be with you."
"We always need a shoulder to rely on."

"You will always be haunted by your sins."
"They will always consider you different."

Every 'Always' we hear,
We seem to forget,
Chemistry's first rule.
Stating that Change is Constant.

What guarantee do we have,
That we will not see better,
Or worse days?

"This too shall pass"
A wise person once said,
And this ideology
Happens to be the one I believe in.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Nine: A Moth

It was only today I noticed,
That around my home
A moth hopelessly circled round.

It was nothing extraordinary,
Most certainly not the first either.
Yet its pale and ghostly hovering,
Left me dark and pensive.

Its almost lethargic flapping,
Seeking only a place of darkness,
As in its mind, a safety was only found there.
And a wardrobe could not be an option.

For the wardrobe, the ghastly thing,
Only gave an illusion of comfort.
And all that is in there,
Is its predecessor's remains.

And so, I simply watched,
Knowing its fate,
As its tireless flight
Slowly withered away.

Yet it kept flying in circles
Flying around the entire house,
From room to room
And nook to cranny
Exploring every possible place for some rest.

As its flying became desperate,
Hopelessly looking again and again,
I wondered if it ever questioned,
What it was doing in the first place.

Why was the darkness so necessary for it?
It seemed to be fine in the light,
Yet it was restless,
Looking for it in a room full of brightness.

Did it not see the darkness outside the window?
Did it realise it could not go through it?
Had it already tried that?
These questions thoughtlessly floated in my brain.

I don't know how long I sat there thinking,
But eventually,
I observed that the moth was nowhere to be seen.
I do not know whether it is alive or dead.

I wonder if it ever realised that
It had no escape unless we opened a window for it.


– Maya Desdemona

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Day Eight: My Mother And Birds

If there is any being on Earth
That could even compare to my Mother,
It would be a Bird.
Not just any one at that!

With the might of an Eagle
And the wit of a Raven,
She would be the kind of bird
To soar over treetops
And chirp happily with the other fowl.

She would not be a shrill bird either.
With the voice of a lark,
She would sing melodies that
Great poets could not even compare.

In every sense,
She would be an early bird.
Pecking us if we didn't wake up
To her chirping.

She would be free to glide
All over the World,
but would still choose her nest
to return to at the end of each day.

Now, Human or Bird,
I wish only one thing.
That my Mom remains happy,
And that one thing is enough.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Seven: Excuses

Is distance your only excuse?
Years have passed,
You still haven't visited,
And now I don't even remember your face.

Time and Time again,
You claim to miss us.
"I'm too busy"
"The flight ticket is too expensive"
"I don't have a vacation now..."
Seem to be your only reasonings.

Your voice, in my memory,
Is now only heard through the static of a phone call.
I don't remember what your personality is like,
Or why you made me laugh at all.

Who are you?
Do I even know you anymore?
Your excuses are all I remember now.



– Maya Desdemona

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Day Six: On The Impact Of Words

The power of a few words is beyond the understanding of many, as one would often find it hard to believe that something we use so freely could bear so much power.

More often than not, We see these words flow with our lives, being the tool we use to communicate and express our feelings, both to ourselves and people around the world.

Yet it also seems that we often forget the power we yield, as ceaseless arguments and constant manipulation from those around us cast a dark shadow over the usage of these very words we unknowingly hold so dear.

One would be a hypocrite even to dare chastise another for misusing these words.

I have seen (but never truly experienced) a few simple words that are very commonly used and ones that we do not give even a second thought to, be arranged in a certain order and spoken in a certain tone to other people, and have watched it both make and break a person.

That’s the power words have. They can make you live a hundred years or kill you in a second.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Four: The Beauty In Black

What twisted fantasy might this be?
Might you be too blind to see?
I simply ought to throw you up a tree!
How dare you insult my precious ebony!
An idiot, is what I don thee!

One cannot see,
Without the pale hues of ebony.
One cannot truly be,
Without my dear black, can ye?
No Yin without Yang, my fellow, see!
Without this one cannot be.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Three: Thoughts On “Survival”

Whichever wise soul that stated that watching a documentary can range from a fun family show to an absolute questioning of self was wholly correct.

To harden one's heart is an expression I always knew of, yet seeing its reality simply plastered for all to see truly dawned its heaviness and severity on me.

But alas,
Even the fiercest predator has a pack to make.
I suppose
Nature simply works this way.

Yet losing one's empathy for a small exchange
Is not exactly a fair trade.
Especially when the animals that you watch through the screen are human beings.

It seems that 'to fight for survival' is not desirable for anyone, but the more one thinks of it, one observes that everyone on this planet is fighting for survival, only in varying degrees, various degrees of effort and in various contexts.

But then,
What exactly is it, to survive?
It is defined as a state of continued existence,
but for what purpose is that living?

If not that, then why do we survive?
Many continuously battle for a chance,
While most don't even try.

– Maya Desdemona

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Day Two: All Grown Up Now

Oh what of that laughing child,
One which danced its days by,
One that sang of tales anew,
One that's fails meant it "grew".

And of the fun it had?
Gone with the wind, that.
What did it think it knew,
Was it leading an unknown crew?

I asked that laughing child one day,
Who smiled at me in dismay.
That one sentence, it said,
Might make you think it was dead.

"I grew up, as did you."

– Maya Desdemona