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
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
Untethered from this sordid reality,
Feeling numb through all life's trials.
Making choices from behind a glass screen,
Screaming and never hearing it.
– Arsh
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
When you pluck a feather
From a bird, It feels pain.
When you pluck a flower
From a plant, Does it scream?
Does it beg for mercy,
Or cry for it's loss?
Does it feel anything for it,
Or is the plant glad to see it gone?
– Arsh
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
They say war makes humans unique,
Yet octopi and ants fight the same as us.
What is the difference then,
Between us and them?
Yet if war doesn't differentiate us,
What makes us any different from animals?
If there is such an answer,
Couldn't anyone just tell me?
– Arsh
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
He is threatened by the fangs of truth,
Of the claws he had once dismissed,
As not a threat.
It will be his downfall.
Regarded as a harmless bunny,
But in actuality a crouching leopard,
He's coming to tame it.
What a joke.
– Arsh
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 