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
Untethered
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
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
On plucking flowers
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
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
What makes us Human?
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
Predator
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
Luminousis 