The Flying Homunculus

I sometimes think,  
What it means,    
A fool in disaster,    
Bygone the age of elder.    
Hoping for transcendence,    
Am I in regress?    
Looking in dull moments,    
A thought of remembrance.    
A concept of,    
Fear in me,    
Lapse of moment,    
In uncertainty.    
   
A ghost in me,    
Roams the world,    
Why I sold my soul,    
To have another?    
And to get to,    
Answer that question,    
The end would be close,    
Delayed disaster.    
If I could be,    
My own in me,    
If I could be,    
Ignorant with me.    
   
And I need to consume my soul,    
To set me free.    
I need to give up my truth,    
To dwell in me.    
   
Give up the sanity,    
Live off me, I'll be free.    
   
And I wonder,    
When it will be over,    
Sovereignty in discrepancy,    
Waiting in disaster.    
An orb in hand,    
Crafted from sand,    
An orb in hand,    
Taught in scam.    
Things are not same in me    
Diminished, the reality.    
I could be,    
Reduced in me,    
I could be,    
False in me.    
   
Give up the sanity,    
Strangle me, I want to be free.    
   
Creation of volition,    
My hunger, destruction.    
The dream gets deep,    
The sleep gets week.    
The whisper gets clearer,    
Desires of disaster,    
Failure in retrospection,  
Assumption in reflection.    
   
Frailty, the god in me,    
Knowledge, my audacity.    
   
Knowledge, my audacity,    
Truth, is not inside me.  
 
I only failed to be me.