Omnipresent Burdens

In every breath I take,
I only fill my emptiness
With air
For a brief while.

A longer release from this nameless burden that sits over me,
Would really be appreciated, you see?

I cannot breathe in for too long,
The weight returns with a spiking pain,
As painful as a somber memory...

Without name and cause,
This burden rests above my chest,
Yet from there it will not budge,
And I must be an Atlas, holding up the sky.

But wherefore does this weary weight come from,
It weighs heavy on the worn soul,
And when one knows not its cause,
It resembles a mystery to unfold.

My life is good and my worries are few,
Yet this immaterial intangible weight
Still constantly rests on my soul.

Are there others in this world
With so queer a tale to tell?
So I ask, dear readers,
So you feel such impending dread?

– Maya Desdemona

Nocturne


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.

– Maya Desdemona, Arsh.

After The Words Are Exchanged

I have been cruel.
I don't know if it was necessary.
I don't know if it was deserved.
All I know is that I have been cruel.

Why was it so?
Do I even regret it?
Have I truly stooped so low in this life?

The thought plagues me.
I know not what I have done,
But the thorns around my heart
Constrict with knowing silence.

They were merely words,
Having no effect on the receiver.
But I must live
Knowing I have been cruel.

– Maya Desdemona

Revenge Served Hot: A Short Story

The kettle’s high pitched whistling seemed to only fuel her growing anger, while the tea that was furiously bubbling in it was now as bitter as her tears. Towards him she felt only resentment, but she always sugared his tea so he would not notice. He never did, anyway.

Only, with the sugar that was there was in his tea today, served as it always had been, a little poison had slipped from her vengeful gaze into his to-go beverage.

– Maya Desdemona