Unfit saviours

Slaying your own kind and calling it honour
Stealing for reasons but burning hunger
O poor wretched soul, I detest you!
To grin at the starving, find humour in killing
To slight the meek, bow to the empowered
O wierd human, I pity you!
To still call yourself the saviour of the world
With nothing but a stupid extra sense
O wierd wretched human, I defy you!

Dust

Unguided I walked for an hour or a dozen
Before slowly dissolving into the gray fog.
The waning moon particularly unwilling
To emerge out of the fluffy dark clouds.
I would have pledged Immortality if I had
For a sound but for my own strained breaths
For a soul but for mine and the surly trees'.

With not the silliest distraction, whatsoever
I embarked to entertain my bored spirits
With questions that lay unasked in normality.
The instinctual queries buried in the mundane

Like spill marks cleaned by soot of the stove.

What was perishable, and what was not?
The dead leaves I sit upon, I understand
Once lived, haughty with an upward spine
Today they lay tread upon by the likes of me
Dust shall win,  Dust they will some day be.

Speaking of leaves, I wonder about me

When my time comes, what would  I be?

The early rays shone through the leaves above
The fog of the night before rapidly clearing
There I sat, dissolving into my foggy mind,
Staring at the crisp brown leaves at my feet