Spawn

Don't make me suffer like Prometheus on a mountain peak, My providence lies between alchemy and illusion, While I strive to be entrenched and meek, In the furrow of life, Liberated from any type of hubris, Crossing the fence, Ripping the chains, Not giving a pence to obstacles nor pains. Rather, I'd respect the archaic version of the solar wheel That crosses the sky, and without temptation I’d keep it real, Without hearsay of consciousness, only selfless zeal, Without toxins I shall start to peel The layers of life like the skin of an eel. Hunter!? Indigenous at heart, Stuck in an unusual labyrinth at the bottom of a ravine, Coroneted in a desert that no one has seen, Travelled far and away, Through the blue eyes of degenerative cells That open micro-possibilities of endless wells. A lifetime away from what seems to be a spontaneous Rift of logic, and an eave that holds Olymp, With no intention to limp, But to run strong, and fast, Holding a whip, Boarding a ship, Ticking this bulletin off, Refusing to be a write-off. As always, there is a new dawn, As I spawn.