Arpeggio of Human Gods

What am I      
that I did not feed,        
that I did not mold by hacking at with a butter knife until I        
become again in this moment now?
 
When an umbilical cord blurred myself and the Other,
did I not revoke it in the vomit of that amniotic fluid to choke on        
my own breath?        
     
Which poisonous spectrum can invert my agitation        
         
that I stirred from a cell slab        
         
to craft the unrefined world        
with the danty nubs of my nails        
that exhume        
symbols of my belief?        
       
And who is to say that I won't continue,        
while this existence reframes at my successive review, even to death  
and the evolution of lungs to helms of space-time?        
   
What        
am I        
that can neither be undone nor omitted?        
What        
am I        
that I cannot be contorted to an end?