The Exestentialist

Where am I from?
What was it that made me?
A pinch of gold, a puff of ash,
Maybe some unknown tree?

My form was forged in summer heat,
Tempered in the hundreds and the nineties,
And quenched in the flooding winter rain,
Before sharpened by my skill.

My mind coalesced in the birth of stars,
Beginning to burn before birth and only growing,
With knowledge that only proves what more I need,
And forcing me to seek it.

My will was formed by the fall of pride,
Hardened and calloused by constant force,
Fighting back at the world around me,
A shield in hand and a spear to bear.

My life was drawn forth through my eyes,
Peering upon papers and texts and tiny marks.
It was taken in to create my world,
And now I create one for it.

My heart was made by those around me,
Sculpted with tools of trust.
Although it is cracked and marred by hammer strike,
The chiseled curves and edges suffice.

My soul was born within the void between light and dark,
An angel born without wings and left to himself;
And among the glittering twilight and half-lit forms,
I was gifted with my own Revelation!

I was born to stand by myself,
Guided only by a falling feather.
I hold myself to none other,
And will fight for the very same.