Your medulla oblongata expands as I utter poems,
not from beauty, no, but from the unbearable burden of thought.
Your chromosomes are my tomes,
written in the absurd dialect of a God who hides behind silence.

I do not read you for comfort.
I dissect you, word by word, cell by cell,
the way a weary theologian dissects a gospel he no longer believes.

You are scripture scrawled in nucleotides,
each gene a commandment carved by chaos.
I recite them not to praise you,
but to indict the Author.