Let me make it clear.

I am a shell of my former self.

The raindrop, unformed,
to be denied the pull of gravity.

But, if I close my eyes,
I can see divine assertions
of my former glory;
to be divulged and distributed
to everyone but myself.

Should I trust my senses
when all that's manifested
are insane twists of mind,
mazes lost in translation,
compasses circling upon themselves,
leading to unsettled destinations,
winding roads and battered shores
with waves eradicating
bits of my character?

When the floods come,
will we assign to the ark
creation
two by two?
Will we wait until the storm passes?

Behold me,
the solitary man!

Behold me,
a true island,
etched from rock
by the continous chisel
of earth's blood!

Vegetation untouched,
lacking maturity.
Earth unwalked,
lacking integrity.
Air uninspired,
lacking humanity.

But, if I close my eyes,
I can see the universe's plan
for my destiny,
placed on the shelf of life,
dusty and fossilized,
unmapped and unread.

I am not as I should be,
resisting the best within me.
Is it too late?
For me?
For me to retain my inheritance?

How will I find Polaris?
The skies remain murky
by the fog I have created.
Who will help me navigate?
Or will I continue to be the lost treasure
undiscovered?