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Night Lights (In The Big City: Part One)

Thunder furiously rumbled across the dark night sky. Pensive, brooding, sulking.
Just like the moody Evelynne Yvonne Marie.
Twirling coils of smoke left the cigar between her fingers, as she stared at the twisting, raging tongues of fire caged in her lighter, begging for release.

How did she end up here? She wasn’t quite sure. But as she stood, sagging her fatigued figure over the rooftop railing, all she could do was gaze at the millions of miniature lights dimly lighting the city below.
“Strange, how the World is so bright even in the darkest of times…” she mused out loud, to no one in particular except the biting cold thrown around by the violent winds. She seemed to sway dangerously towards whichever side this tempest took her, as the only parts of herself fixed to anything at all were her eyes, still staring ahead.

In the far distance, a loud crack of thunder carried itself across the city sky, bringing with it the harsh, steady sound of rain hitting all, be it building, pedestrian, or pavement. Even so, the lights shined as bright as ever, never once dimming.

– Maya Desdemona

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Ode To The Burnt (Matchstick)

Are you a burnt little matchstick?
Struck against scraping sandpaper
Till you shine bright enough to be a star,
But the joy of being enough is robbed by the end, without going far.

Burnt, crippled, broken, and used,
Now showing no more potential nor promise,
You are thrown away by the world,
Tossed in a pile without a thought,
The light you brought, they forgot,
So they have simply left you to rot.

-Maya Desdemona

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Loss

I suppose there was truth when Calpurnia said:
"The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."

For as I stare out my window,
Glancing at heaven above and ground below,
I see white lilies mourn the loss of a kind soul from this world,
And the mighty heavens themselves stand in shame at their helplessness.

On this day
A great and kindly spirit was robbed from this Earth,
Far too early, sooner than one would anticipate,

And simply...
That.

That spirit has left this Earth, and left us mortals in its wake
As fleeting as the picture captured
With these gifts called memories.

-Desdemona

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On the happenings of Today

The delicate peace promised to us by the leaders of the world hangs on a balance that tilts steadily towards the rough, violent arms of war. The modern day and age, the one that promised this peace and progress, has seemingly forgotten the many suffering souls around the world, still oppressed, still denied their basic human rights. It is our duty, as citizens of our respective countries, and as individuals living in this world, to brighten this world for all those in it, to leave it a better place than when we entered it, and above all, to seek justice and recompense for those wronged by the powerful voices of this world.

– Maya Desdemona

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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.

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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