There is something, something
about this road we take.
Each step resonates with the
loud thud of a fallen tree
last winter.
It appears we walk into the
past each day while
leaving the present transiently behind.
On our way back, we hold
hands in silence, somber silence,
the ilk of which kills-
albeit with a sword
and not a gun at close range.
This journey- from here
to there and back occurs
in a New York’s minute.
Nostalgia, however, recounts
it as a decade.
Emmanuel Obaseki's Reverie 