these subtle strings that some
  lonely god wove into souls and
       hearts, bones and blood--this is
          his swerving handwriting, curling
                across pages of skin and color.

i can see him now, bent over a long desk
   sweat collecting in beads along his brow,
     glittering in the ethereal candlelight, and he is
       writing in DNA, telling new stories:

genetic dramas written in lively ink,
  spilling across the dirt stage:
    some of us are tragedies,
        some of us are comedies,
          and some of us are masterpieces;
            (of course, we can't all be classic literature--
                every now and then the ending is abrupt, or
                    the plot twists itself into a knot and then so
                        does the rest of you)

but sometimes i think his greatest story is that
  quiet hollow that grows in your heart until it has
    consumed your every thought:
      sometimes i think he's telling us exactly how he
        feels.