Hinge? Too High. Tinder? By All Means!

“How is it you’re feelin’ so uneasy? How is it that I feel fine?”
—Mad Season, ‘I’m Above’

I am looming over you, Dali’s
Christ of Saint John; though I am probably too up
To be doing this: it will only keep me
Sane. Hopefully we will get you on your way:
Who the devil do I think I am: I have been lying—
Lied to—as if this is anything we should do
Without a contract, with no
View of the future; though I am too good
For my own good—that’s the problem—as I cannot tell them
How gifted and touched I am: it is too extreme
And not spiritual my sin is keeping myself here; because if I didn’t
Swipe I would fall off
This cross. But I bear this
To take your family’s sins away. And I am due a spectacular climb down.