Who am I to shape my own perception
A mad man? Or perhaps worst. . .
A man who is self aware of his own sanity
But never has lunacy tasted so balanced

The waves on the shore serenade me
And the palms bow to their new king
But if all is common and all is real
Then I am not worthy of godliness

I ponder of creation above the skies
But unafraid of an invisible creator
Even the poorest man knows my ways
I am not sculpted in perfection

Perhaps my greatness is shown fate
Or crippled in a scene of a shoreline
No
Paradise is untimely for my fault

The lavender is laid in the sand
And there is no text written
I am still a shattered man without a cause
I am unworthy. . .