In this ballroom,
They are bride and groom.
But it truly seems,
That this arrangement attracts doom.
For they are but puppets,
Forced to dance on a never-ending stage,
So they play their parts to perfection,
Praying that someday,
Things will change.
For whom are you putting on this act?
To which great masquerade artist
Are you trying to prove yourself?
– Maya Desdemona
Pessoa once wrote
In his Book of Disquiet,
That "Only the imprisoned,
With the fascination
Of someone watching ants,
Would pay such attention
To one shifting ray of sunlight."
At first I begged to differ,
Stating my reasoning
That great poets were never once caged,
But the more I thought on the matter
The clearer it seemed to me,
That the only cage holding such a poet
Is one of his own decree.
– Maya Desdemona
Your mechanical typing
Truly resembles clockwork.
Although I am aware
That you are, at present,
Heartlessly and mindlessly at work,
I cannot help but compare you to clockwork.
The many gears of your mind are turning,
Your hands continually typing,
Your soul is now nonexistent,
And your heart seems to have failing power.
Such a lively person so lifeless,
Can even strike something called pity,
Yet I know you well,
And can only cackle at your half-heartedness.
But my, What is this?
It seems my laughter has raised your spirits,
And now you happily chat with me,
While your work lays forgotten.
– Maya Desdemona
I am here,
Though my mind is anywhere but.
That mind refuses to be caged
In the tight confines of the cranium,
And freely roams the world.
The tragedies of Old
And comedies that are new
Are where you will find mine,
Forever seeking entertainment.
Oftentimes I wonder
Why it leaves me behind.
Take me with you, dear mind,
Don't leave the flesh behind on this planet.
Yet the mind will forever only watch,
Never feel the emotions that
It travels Fact and Fiction to see.
I suppose,
In this sense,
A closed cage is better than
Never feeling what one sees.
– Maya Desdemona
All it takes
To ruin the peace of
One who does not know war
Is the greed of One individual.
– Maya Desdemona
I passed by a small lake,
Devoid of even a single ripple,
And saw it reflect everything beside it with perfect clarity.
To me, it seemed more truthful than
Any mirror I had ever gazed upon.
I saw it for but a fleeting moment,
But that simple glance showed me an entire world around it.
– Maya Desdemona
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
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
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
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
Luminousis 