I've got life's greatest mystery

sprawled out on a cold metal table,

under microscopes with cracked and dirty lenses.

The blank eyes of a pure, pale face stare upward

while an intricate rose beats steadily inside the chest.

The subject convulses in spasms of violent agony

and its crimson organs throb beneath the outer layer

which my knife sliced open with no compunction.

The facts have been rehashed over and over.

I can recite the calculations in my sleep,

but I'm gigabytes away from understanding.

Other great thinkers have studied it before.

Paul explained it to the Corinthians,

and Shakespeare called it an ever-fixed mark.

It's clearly a verb and not an emotion.

It doesn't come at first sight,

nor do you just fall in and out of it,

but the data does not compute.

I stick the dripping needle into its frigid vein.

It winces and pulls back, resisting my intrusion.

My lab coat is already wrinkled and worn.

For all my hours of ceaseless toil,

the supercomputer cannot crack the language

which far transcends binary code.

Such great advances would be made for mankind

if I could just figure out how to use it,

but reality has shattered all my hypotheses.

Each experiment has tasted bitter failure,

and the specimen is already drained of life.