The apparent, inevitable reconciliation of science and religion

Midnight.
Time bled out via sandglass wound.  
The Doomsday Clock, also nailed:    
hands over head, posing    
the hour of reconciliation.
Apocalypse assured.  

Flashback:
biopunk progeny
of a post cyberpunk Prometheus: creation gone viral.
Ain’t nothin’ but a thing.
A sick thing.
Put the spotlight on papa: call ‘em Frank.  
When all is said and done,
he was just a kid with Play doh and a bobby-pin,
ready at the power socket.  
Wanted to say, “It’s alive!  Alive!”
Yeah, he was shocked by the results, but you got to admit,
the outcome was expected.  

Later, a murder
of blinded crows are perched on limbs, and
other meaty parts at the Body Farm-  
snacking on maggots,
stoically calling:  
“God,
god,
god.”  
It’s just the model of pestilent decline:
The dead, brought out and laid  
before the doors of hospital and place of worship alike.  
Midnight snack for all the birds.
Out of despair, the cart man mutters,
“Give me Christ,
or give me Kevorkian!”