Spirituality's Dead Flowers

Spirituality's conceptions bleed
organisation into life and death,
and I sketch a circle close to these lips,
transgression took my father's name; Adam.
A lifetime away from deliverance,
I stalk morality as juggled shapes
become a blur of cold insanity -
divinity screams inanimate sin.
Insensitive moi, I flick eyes towards
trust in a God I'm not sure is alive.

Personality's artistic beauty
shatters into other wild dimensions,
reality's dirt under fingernails,
fits of coughs that send stars on a journey
around aches of timeless relaxation.
Perhaps I'm a fraud in a world of frauds,
just like you I stumble through existence,
crack smiles against pleasure's fragile escape.
Dead flowers perfume the anguished domains,
but when happy I twist into bright light.