Two Poems By Victor Ogan

The Cold Sermon

Scared to break the ice,

Skin thick with frail goosebumps,

Afraid to fight the icy battle,

Ironically, the battle was a common masterpiece,

Like the werewolves transform every full moon,

Thus, it was a match set in heaven,

‘Braven yourself, to face the brunt of the hard edges,

Or stand still, till eternity pass,

Leaving skeletons dry and emptied’,

A cruel price to pay for a fear of something light,

Kelly Clarkson’s ‘Stronger(What Doesn’t Kill You)’,

In the mind, now a continuous war chant,

A laughable attempt to stimulate the ego,

But its eccentricity, in whole shades,

A whole lot plausible, than the fantasy,

Of the gifted fire benders, with the telekinetic ability,

To break off this ice with not a sweat,

But fantasy must needs meet reality,

Yet in their union, a chasm still maintains,

In the gulf that rents the middle,

The skin finally toughens to break the ice,

Chills that block the lungs,

With entrapped air, falling in its use for animated screams,

Lost in the chasm, a bottomless pit,

Light’s blindness, in the abyss of loneliness,

Herein, the most awkward fears meet reality,

Imprisoned, in a dungeon, disguised as a fortress,

The only companion, a clown who fails at his job,

Bright enough is he though to entice fear,

A genuine performance, he learned to give,

From a careful observation of It’s ‘Pennywise’,

Indeed, the ices broken,

But were the tales, it entailed,

Worth setting a play, whose tussle with it, was the driving conflict?

Generals of a Fallen Empire

Que será, será,

The broken hearted, strummed on his guitar,

Each twang, a consolation, for the one who got away,

A blind eye, it attempts to throw on his failed cues,

The resolution to his loss.

Rome wasn’t built in a day,

The seeker prayed monotonously into the morning air,

The epic inspiration, a cover,

For the epic failures to match,

Sorrows of the previous days,

The Ends of whose darkness, he had never seen the light.

Have faith in the gods, trust them and they will not fail you,

The pious one sang,

Songs of praise,

To ignore his shame,

Which heavily bothered him to Lamentations,

The cold waters troubling his loins, heated by the burning blood,

Its cruelty aroused by the rising tensions in his heart,

Synonymous with doubt,

For akin his previous experiences were,

To a kid who believed in the total salvation of the human race,

At the hands of some existing superheroes.

Now, broken, yet seeking and pious,

Three heavy weights, a crowd to bear,

Lusting in denial, a desire to push on,

But the heart knows the truth, which the mind can’t be lied to,

That to some clay,

The potter destined to be honoured at The Queen’s Palace,

Loathsomely, to some others,

Dejection was predestined, their final honour,

To be displayed around the city as spoils,

Like the legendary vanquished and prisoners of war,

At Caesar’s Gala,

In limelight of their impending execution,

Thus finding a common ground, lay their greatest achievement,

‘To die is to have lived’.

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