God and the Siege Howitzer Mounted Within My Hypoglossal Canal

When I first met you
I didn't know I did.

My mental mortar
erased you
before I could recognize you.

I am your foremost admirer
The poems of the prophets
call to me,
as does the quiet love of your followers.

But since you were
blown into blessed pieces
there's no use
in continuing to look.

So I piece myself apart
and replace mine with yours.
Leg from Muhammad,
tongue from Christ,
liver from Siddhartha
and heart from you yourself

I wonder
like the ship of the hero
each part foreign from my starting place
do I remain?
Or am I a grotesque human collage?

Or am I god
with only myself to learn from?