Staring inward, the dark abiss,

Exposed his mortal soul.

The fears born of loneliness

Begin to take their toll.

Enter he the wanderer

in-cased in Ancient stone

the assured life- the absconder,

his silence should atone.

He bows before benevolence

Cowed is he who kneels

For faith is mankinds righteous sense

To act on what one feels...

History, tradition and servitude

the iron keys of power.

Mans assention, a multitude,

a looming, stoic tower.

Schackles to the will

or a key for such a tower?

the precipice of madness

or hope in mans dark hour?