Posted on by Arsh

Greek Tragedies

Icarus may have fallen,
But he experienced the feeling of
Freedom from a tyrant,
And the sensation of flying free.
What more could he have asked for?

Orpheus may have turned back
To look for Eurydice,
But she never doubted his love for her,
Not when he bargained with Hades for her life.
What more could she have asked for?

Prometheus may have been punished
With eternal torment,
But his name lives forevermore
As the forerunner of human civilisation.
What more could he have asked for?

These long gone times may have made
These myths into tragedies,
But those in the myths
Have triumphed in their own way,
So what more could they have asked for?

– Arsh

Posted on by Undead Diaries

Day Twenty One: Foreshadowing?

I was out on a stroll,
Now usual, I suppose,
Yet today I found,
Another most curious view.

It was high up,
A rather peculiar looking cloud,
And it took looking twice,
For my mind to make a discernable shape.

In all its abstract beauty, 
I could see a bird
Flying out of a cloud of smoke
At least, that is what I perceived.

Twenty minutes later,
Is when my curious sight 
Comes to the corner of my eye.
I noticed that a bird was struck down.

It was not a natural death,
Far from it, really,
A few stray cats in the locality
Had caught it while hunting.

And upon looking at its dismembered corpse,
Hanging from a kitten's mouth,
I could only feel 
That I had seen that bird before.

– Maya Desdemona

Posted on by Undead Diaries

Day Twenty: Eagles

Amongst the overflow of chatter between the unruly pigeons,
The call of an Eagle is so distinct.
In a mundane stroll devoid of much to think,
It heralds, finally, some excitement to the mind.

It spreads its majestic wings
Of span greater than most winged beasts, 
It has made itself ruler of these skies
By circling around its land and pride.

More often than not,
I can hear its call,
Yet not see its figure,
For it is above the clouds.

It screeches across its clear skies,
And glides over building and tree alike,
It seems to be hunting,
Chasing its luck like throwing dice,

Yet doesn't seem to find prey tonight.
And today, it might go to its nest
Without much in beak, but a few scraps.
After all, it is truly a miracle 
That food can still be considered available. 

Its life in this urban landscape,
Is a struggle through which it must persist,
Yet nature will not go astray,
And these eagles will find their way.

– Maya Desdemona

Posted on by Arsh

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

Posted on by Undead Diaries

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

Posted on by Undead Diaries

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