The King

You linger
in my thoughts
and in my habits.
I don’t know you anymore.

I don’t know that
the rain is sent from you
or that there is a hint
of your voice in thunder.

You are an idea
or worse…
someone that once lived
in my heart
and my writing
and my soul.

The rain just comes and goes
without reason
or sender.

Thunder booms
without majestic words.


No job title to my name.

these days
life moves in cycles
of positivity– wonder,
a certain hope
(jealousy, sometimes)
something close
to desperation
and unassuming happiness

I write answers
to testing questions
wonder if it’s all for nothing
study my keyboard
listen to lectures
consider all the possibilities
arrive at meaningless conclusions
quietly dance with the darkness I used to know
only to come back because there’s nothing there.
How many others have felt like this?

I question the value
of my existence
without a job title
to my name.


I stay home
whilst nature takes revenge outside
With the world
pouring out from my screen

Would it be better
to go out into the storm?

Would my mind find refuge
from the stream
of images
of war?

Is it worth knowing
what happens,
if only for those
stories of hope?

A dream.

A dream
into your imagination
a soft plunge
in the liquid substance
that will sustain it

It begins to unravel
with quick, sharp movements
in all directions —
speedy arrows
travel across
in milliseconds

Then with softer
elegant twirls
it dances
to the music
of the Sleeping Beauty soundtrack.


I remember a love of epic dimensions
rich, powerful, abundant love
that could carry my heart to the heights
of the tallest mountain
and plunge me into the depths
of a dark,
empty tomb.

Human love of epic proportions
epic flaws
indescribable tenderness
deep wounds
tainted beauty.

Your heart in knots
your soul aching
for another love.

Continue reading “Knots.”

Saturday morning.

on a Saturday morning
she would get up early
and tiptoe to the kitchen.

she’d learned to be quiet,
in the kitchen
she’d learned to disappear
into the silence.

there, every Saturday morning,
she would enjoy a
few hours of coffee scented

she’d learned to be quiet
in the kitchen;
zachtjes lopen,
koffie maken,

keeping her mysteries
a secret.

Saturday morning.
by Yessica Daedalus, 2013


Bustling streets;
you rush
though there’s plenty of time,
you’re not meeting anyone in 10 minutes.
Nobody’s telling you to hurry
yet you speed up,
dodging tourists that stop
at every corner
to take pictures of the sights.
They pour out an endless stream of opinions and random facts about this place.
You try to walk past them.

It’s so painful to walk sometimes!

You gather impressions:
People eat, love, laugh, argue…
You rush.
Because somehow they will notice
that you want to walk slowly,
that you want to take your time
in getting where you want to be.
And that is outrageous!

I have to move,
I have to go.
Go, go, go!
There is no time.
I’m late.
I’m always late.
I’ll be told off if I slow down.

They will say:
hey you! Schiet op! Don’t slack!
Get over it already, it happened years ago!
Your body is fine, use those legs!

There is no time, you think.
Somebody is watching
and making the clock tick faster,

As you try to keep up
you grow thorns
and curl inward.

You speed up
trying to get it sorted.

Until one day
you fall.

On the ground you remember:
It is OK to walk slowly.
You might need help for a while.
It is OK to walk slowly.
Some people won’t understand but
it is OK to walk slowly.
And some people will remind you that it is OK.
It is OK…

– Yessica Dædalus, 2013