Yearning

We are beating emotions, 
And because we are this
And names that breath
We want to rent the earth 
And air without 
Being choked by stares.

We pray that the colours
That wound round our skin
Tire of inheriting us
The prods of goads
And ta-ta-tas of stones.

Or is it you
Who must cease
Travelling down that bumpy road?

Hate is free
But that cruel master
Turns eyes into
Prowling and prancing slaves
Seeking hurt and prey.

So you can cease,
Cease travelling along
The path that splinters
And burns
And you can choose
The other road that says
We are all priceless. 

Then we all can live
As the wind
Not teetering on
Extinction’s face.

We want to belong
To the night as the day
Safe on silent streets
With distant stars
And scanty lamps
Hurt and the terror of it,
Absent as breath from corpses.


Origins

The earth bled out
Untainted & undeveloped tongues,
Interacting with the gift of mime,
They learnt the truth,
Good & evil, order & chaos.

They grew to the circumference of the earth,
Their blood remained red
But they sprouted languages & skin colours
Denying the roots of their birth.

The beating of their soft instruments sculpted into stone
Tumbling, crushing and falling upon the other
Each claiming a preminence of his own
That above his god & empire was the testimony of no other.

Yet, time has possessed a greater testimony, 
For do not most facts in their history,
Sleep underneath sepulchres
Of legends & myths & mystery?

Victor Ogan is a writer whose works focus on existential themes.