‘Ben’ is the closest the reader will get to finding the real name of Maya Desdemona, one of my many aliases. It is in this category where you shall find my creative products.
The moon calls the pristine sea-water, Which in turn, reaches to the sky to answer. The wind sings of this sultry exchange, While the poor rocks, Constantly thrashed by the falling tides, Can only silently sigh.
To be rosy in health, To have not a single burden weighing heavy on your shoulders, But still feel as though your chest is constrained in thorns? To still dread waking in the morn? To fill your empty mind with worry after worry, Just to keep it occupied? To be upset without cause, Unable to confide in the loving embrace of reason?
To resolve to watching the suffering of a life you never know? A mere piece of fiction you must grit your teeth to watch? To analyse the every aspect of their misery, With dare I say glee, To better understand how they think, How they function? To be depraved enough to even think, To watch but to never empathise? Perhaps it is the joyous life one has lived so far that gives one entertainment watching a tragedy? To enjoy pathos feeling like a sinner, A vile criminal?
Fret not, little child, The monsters under your bed are long gone, The next monsters you must fear Lurk within the minds of men.
It enslaves their heart, And lives off their soul, Construing their figures beyond recognition. Turning them into a shell of their former person.
Fret not, little child, Such monsters are a part of life, They live within us all and live all too well, For why else would poets of old admire your innocence, Your childlike wonder, lost to the seas of time?
For what can Man do, Except follow its predecessors today? Regardless of the path, It all ends with the grave.
Till the heart ceases to beat And the hand ceases to move, Till the corpse has no heat And the mind achieves no feat.
Yet even beyond the grave All men are remembered in some way And it is through their ideas, Legendary and brave.
We know not their life, We know not their strife, At times, we know not even their name. But we know what they did.
A legacy remains.
It will only follow, Through sickness and health, Through poverty and death In hopes that it can even live to compare To the might of those who left it behind.
Sweet Nocturne, She needs not the light of day, Nor the labours that do not pay, For with her she has numerous nebulae, That keep her at bay.
She is oft mistaken with coldness and death, But in her darkness one finds a hearth, A truly limitless rebirth, Yet one that blazes with solace.
It needs no light And does not burn too bright, So as to hurt your eyes And feed you with all-encompassing lies.
For sweet Nocturne is Wicked Man’s veil, Though the many layers of her beauty Enclose many in pain, Those lost souls always searching for their way Will always find themselves in that dark haze.
Luminousis 