Does anyone else feel
That the Sky feels closer
The older we get?
My younger self would whine,
Seeing no stars in the then polluted sky.
Yet today I find,
Even constellations here shine.
The forever cloudy sky looks dim,
And often finds an inky undertone to lie in.
The Moon is perfectly halved,
Drowned in both Darkness and Light.
Today, I only happened
To see the sky by chance,
But even this chance viewing
Danced within my inner eye.
– 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
It all starts with a thought.
Abundant yet never truly provocative.
It remains, neither developing nor dying,
And simply exists.
However, it never ends there.
That is only the beginning of this tale.
This half-baked thought, desperate to survive.
Struggles to grow.
It festers, clinging to the mind like a parasite.
It only continues
To grow and grow,
Till it can be avoided no more.
And curiosity,
Like that of a small child,
Envelopes you as you see it in a new light.
Glories of wars to behold
And stories untold
Enraptures even the bold,
Incomparable to gold.
And in that wonder you find,
The words to describe it
Seem to just fall like leaves in autumn
Right out of your mouth.
In that moment,
The mind runs faster than the speed
Of both hand and sound,
Thrown out from the consciousness
Before disease infects it.
Thoughts that plague,
Thoughts that harm
And thoughts that are neither profound
Nor permissive
Reside in the same mind,
Like an incurable illness.
Yet this mind will continue
To forever create and destroy,
To discover and explore,
Till the Light and Life of existence
Are no more.
– Maya Desdemona
Lorena, or sweet Lorraine,
As good-natured as the name portrays,
Victorious as Laurus nobilis' many triumphs claim.
Yet I do not know anyone with this name.
A careful balance between Darkness and Light,
She is indeed 'crowned with laurels' and sight,
Not only easy-going and bright,
But also forever wondering with delight.
Untouched by blight,
She is morally right,
For her ideals she will fight,
But don't worry, she won't bite.
A famous army,
Is what her name means,
Who is she?
My imaginings only take me so far.
– Maya Desdemona
I can never understand how
A person can associate the night,
With its peaceful presence,
The numerous stars,
The ever changing sky
And the lonesome moon with evil.
Maybe it is because the night holds us when we are most vulnerable,
And sees us for who we are.
It is only the Night which can see all our sins, and all our misgivings.
It is only in the Night, where the stoned face sheds a tear.
It is only in the Night, where the most paranoid shuts one eye.
It is only the Night which shadows the wrongdoings of the human race.
It is only the Night which shadows a predator from its prey.
It is only the Night which can see our dreams and nightmares, a myriad of emotions Stemming from the plagues of the mind and the soul.
Maybe it is simply because, the Night always sees.
No, let us put this argument in perspective.
It is forced to see what the day does not.
It does not wish to cover the crimes of both man and not.
It cannot reach out to console those who find solace in it.
The moon is merely the sun in disguise,
Miserably looking upon what the man does behind its back.
– 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
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
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
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
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
Luminousis 