My friend showed me a perfect spiral branching out of tree bark,  

A Junji Ito beauty you wouldn’t believe wasn’t carved.  

I disregarded the pic until Sunday mass. 

Where it sat as my symbol of piety and casualty.  

The narrow road to sanctity 

 they’re preaching seems 

 Outrageous— 

especially with the roundabout route they’re taking.  

Circling                                      through sin                   and salvation  

to hope a                                       unseen

hand grants favor,  

neverminding                                              the six fingers.  

Yet                            this is what a mother prays  

             her son will dial into,  

hoping he finds the riches                             a Christ blood diamond gives you,   

              but— 

 it’s daunting to dip a hand                 into the spiralling styx,  

Knowing             you’ll drown in a  holy 

            water  

            shark pit. 

in the name of sanctity                                   and soul-saving grace.  

but— 

nothing’s 

 ever saved my spirit 

like baptism in paint, it colored in the blemishes  

                                                          and rid me of fate.  

Missing that holy spiral’s only a matter of aim  

It’s not a science, but neither is doctrine, that pledges allegiance to a man who escaped his coffin.  

I’m not looping into cynical darkness,  

just confident my flesh can handle the plight of the godless.