Monstrous creatures roam the dark,
Always keep a
Close eye on these eldritch abominations
And grotesque horrors,
But these ghastly entities
Roaming the dark here,
Escape only from a human's imagination.
– Arsh
Day Nineteen: Sunset
As the sun sets by the tree of fire,
The wind blows high, and the clouds fly,
Over the wind and sky.
And I sit here, playing the lyre.
– Maya Desdemona
History
The summary of life
Is not an honest poem.
It lies and cheats,
Is dishonest and prevaricates.
History has its ups and downs,
But only the victor tells the tale.
The true history and the truth,
Is always lost to the sands of time.
"To the victor go the spoils"
Is an easy phrase to say.
Until you are no longer the victor,
And your history has gone astray.
Hence the next time
History has you fascinated,
Remember that half of it
Has been completely fabricated.
– Arsh
Day Eighteen: A Day Out
Oftentimes I find myself
Merely sulking in the depths of my sheets,
And it is just as often
I forget how good a day out feels.
A brisk walk to a mall,
An often overlooked luxury now,
Was a wonderful place to fall
Into the many spirals of conversation with friends around.
Minutes turned to hours
As we continually talked in peace,
And as we presented our views,
We caught up on flying bits of news.
Movies turned to books
And books to political outlooks
As we openly expressed, but also collectively felt.
Eventually, we will always find camaraderie.
At the end of the day,
With muscles stretched and spirit refreshed,
I returned,
Only to sulk in my bed again.
– Maya Desdemona
Beware
Watch out quietly,
Between your windows and your doors.
Pay no attention,
To the things you don't want to know.
Hear no noises,
Ignore all things which are strange.
Blind yourself,
To those changes you didn't make.
Don't turn your head,
There was nothing there at all.
Reject absurdity,
For your life is not forfeit tonight.
– Arsh
Day Seventeen: My Greatest Critic
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
Ancient knowledge
Yellowed pages surrounding
These hallowed words.
Warped and yet preserved pages,
Bestowing priceless knowledge.
Textured and hand-made papers,
Seem to belie some ancient scriptures.
Their reality however,
Is of old tax records.
– Arsh
Day Sixteen: The Night Sky
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
Thunderstorm’s fury
Calling to the ever-changing cloud,
Clouding over all life's problems.
Calling to the rapid lightning,
Shocking through the worst dilemmas.
Calling to the crackling storm,
Charging through any controversies.
Calling to the flighty mist,
Hazing over occurring uncertainties.
Calling to the torrent of rain,
Barraging through the enemy's meagre defenses.
I call upon the fury of the thunderstorm,
In the hopes that my enemy may be vanquished.
– Arsh
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
Luminousis 