To-night is dark, so
  step lightly and carry
  a large lamp into
  the howling woods

Wisdom says run, run
  to dark caves and
  harrowing silences
  mirror the bottomless

The abyss, gazing
  headlong into itself,
  recoils in horror,
  shudders dis-eased

And only lamp-light,
  courage flick'ring
  in oppressive depth
  persists, defiant

A stain on un-becoming
  a trampler of stars
  peddler of filth
  who knows all the answers.

Tornado of thoughts
Whirling with this troubled clouds.
How did we get here?
The answer? Who cares?
The trampled remember the past
The trampler, in the present bask.

Humanity, the trending fraud.
Ages ago, who would've thought
Man is reduced to fear
Death lurks everywhere
Though that is the least of them all
Other accompanying devils deal their far worst blows.

Is it still a man's (human's) world?
My boomeranging thought.
If it still is
Justify this.
How come there are more guns
Than there are humans?
More killings than births?
More wars than peace-advancement seminars?

If truth has only one perspection
By now, we should be standing on the same vantage point

The world ie now no more than a chess board
We are; the chess pawns;
Bishops and knights;
With queens and kings,
At the summit of this prism

Is this what humanity was designed to become?
I bet, we are just a compromised generation.

How can I pour my existence onto the page,
To stand firm, true, inviolate;
Like this arrangement of ancient bark?

My words written in their time,
Shed themselves like autumn leaves,
Tumbled and turned by the winds of the creative mind.

Will they whisper to those who would hear,
Of greener times and memories unfurled,
My secrets, my shame, my joy, my sorrows?

To be picked up and appreciated for their sunset colouring,
Swept aside with impatience as a trifling incidental,
Or trampled to dust by the pell-mell of rushing feet.

And which, dear reader, are you - a collector, a sweeper, or a trampler?