The brave man raised a foot to step forward, but the brave man was not a brave man.
He was a desperate man.
Nothing but a desperate man shaking and shivering under the weight of his own fear.
His tongue left void of taste except the bitter tang of fools courage.
Nothing but fear in a poorly painted mask.
His eyes vacant left with only the sterile glaze of a faint and fractured disregard.  
What a disguise.
What a facade.
Courage isn't all that brave if you fail to put your foot back on the ground.

cloud of dark
skies, where
the hollows
of the night
unwind
their
flowing
streams,

boy, you
make me feel
alive,
i am your
dream,

unravel
the stars at
my feet,

push me
against a wall,

burn into me
like mist.

The haunted place was a taunt to mind,
was wrapped in a different kind of silence
that felt more like an accumulated absence.

Absence spoke in the words
of disturbing silence
or punctuating meaningless sounds,
all of it choked and evoked a
formless presence bound in itself,
without any point of reference
name or connections,
all erased by some quirk
time played on the turn of events.

What remains is an eerie
absence pointing to aggregated loss
which binds the collective will to express
The ghost's relevance diminished
to mere nuisance, nothing more.
This ghost has no clue where
it belongs or where to attach
still it's a faint movement  between
the shadow of absence and a vague desire
to appear as  an apparition.

I take the last boat on the Icchhamati River.

the huddled shadows in the gloam
talk of home
a waiting bed
before climbs the moon overhead.

In little comforts voices bask
amid oars sloshing the night
and  I brood in silence
neath the  northern star

how far is home
how far?

The morning comes, and dark clouds appears
Facebook notification alerts me about those clouds
Are clearing today and I must look out for sunshine
So what about me: what about our equanimity
in the New York city?

What am I going to wear?
Here I am dress up like polar bears
Watching my window curtain clings again the window pane
So cold inside, so are the contents in the tupperware
Looking forward to this sunny day, before the night comes
Longing for that special trip to the Caribbean sunshine,

The air in the city seem so misty and *****
The loud traffics sound is deafen, it's sicken
It’s time for some March morning moonshine

The traffic light by Walgreen pharmacy is on the ground
The black ice still hangs around in the big city

A poet lamenting about the well-being of the city dwellers
As many folks filed grievances about living conditions of Newyorkers
A poet might as well filed a complaint over conditions,
that led up to her cold, cold **** and *****