A convoluted life is rife with cute rhymes turned too many times

I've seen the signs – chalk line stigmata of a Jesús who didn't rise.
Don't believe the lies – 30 pieces only buys a vacant burial lot –
A vacant Lot whose wife with an even more vacant look
Stands in horror before the artistry formerly known as Gomorrah
Still as a stylite, the premier and ultimate of the stylites
(who didn't know their Alpha from their Omega
because they dared not ask "Am I putting myself on a pedestal?").
The metal still will be put to the fire Whether to burn the bloody silver dross or forge the iron.
And if iron sharpens iron, I'm feeling a bit anemic.
My bulimic spirituality hurls me into a strategic duality
In which I still can't hide behind Jekyll or Hyde
Because I've split too wide the divide between wisdom and understanding.
I'm scampering back and forth between the two sides of this false dichotomy,
Like a racecar going back and forth palindromically,
A palamino push-me pull-me escaping Laban's curse in dappled confusion,
An appled infusion of sin – what's this mess I've got myself in
In the beginning was the question but now all we've got are answers –
Cures spreading like cancer. You can't dance around the question with words since His worship
Requires a physical response, not just emotions ensconced in saline solution,
Your teary ablutions are just a formula for ablative absolution –
Which requires a grammatical revolution when your stuck in the genitive case, and I can't get past the accusative…
How long will it take you to realize you're not just parsing in the wrong language,
You're making a farce of the Logos with your anguage-lay atin-lay
Don't you know it's all greek to me?
Why won't you just speak to me Dixisti!
You have spoken, and I see from the sticks broken in my hands I'm grasping at straws
But all I pull out are guffaws because my faux paws clinging, claw like a dangling clause
To my own prison of convoluted indecision built out of those sticks I was gripping
On the edge of the cliff and if I just let go what would I be missing?
Listen, it wasn't glue I was sniffing when I got up this high
So why am I stuck with this withdrawal; falling from the fifty-fifth floor I call,
"So far so good, I think." – Epiphany! (Being unsure just means my armpits stink.)
Don't blink you'll miss the important thing,
Because the landing's already secure. I'm falling…
- in love with my Savior. What can I do to explain my desperate behavior?
I may be gasping but I can't blame her on a lack of oxygen
With only one life to write and no right to life, I'm falling out of options,
And into labs stocked with alchemist's concoctions –
Desperate elixirs, mixtures of false humility and grandiosity –
Fixtures that fuel me to a higher velocity with octanes that are a monstrosity,
Ventricles pumping like pistons with ferocity. Pissed on by a frog y'see, I'm pissed off by my mediocrity
Which thwarts the thumbs off my hands With warts from those damned amphibians,
I feel scammed like an Indian, who's been Native Americaned into oblivion,
Though he can navigate his Navajo ancestry to go before Amerigo,
Because the merry-go-round of history repeats itself…
Just like my problem of being focused on my-self,
And my life, rife with convoluted rhymes times two "cute" signs:
A lamb and a cross -
The stigmatoin, of the Jesus who did rise, defy the lies with the human cost
Of 30 pieces to buy the alibi Judas only thought he'd lost,
When he hanged himself in that vacant lot, Not knowing it was for this that Joseph's burial lot became vacant:
It is for this the 30 pieces weren't taken: for this no more lies there forsaken:
The Body of Christ. - It does rise. Although stigmatized, he has risen!
We have risen indeed! And these eyes have seen the signs too many times
to deny the rhymes echoing through my mind
We are the branches, he is the vine.
Let me be tangled, if it's in the divine.

Joel Mitchell