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Day Fourteen: The Process Of Writing

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

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Day Thirteen: Lorraine

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

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Day Twelve: On The Night (Pt. 1)


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

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Day Eleven: A Sailor’s Tale

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

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Day Ten: Always

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