She Doesn't Tell You That You Are A Loser

She Doesn’t Tell You That You Are Loser

Grace:  The incredible pink cushion between your screwed up decisions and the ramifications wrought by them.

Mercy:  withholds the rod.  Grace says, “Now what?  Given you’ve gotten yourself into a marijuana muddied bowl of slime, would you like a hand up?”  She gets her hands dirty.

“That’s ok, its just something I have to work through.”  And she does.  Her incredible prayer power burns a hole through overhanging clouds of gloom.

My ears pierce in my usual confronting atmosphere.  An auto E.Q. does its job to focus the vibrations to the rear-view mirror.  Anger aligns my head to look straight into traffic.  Twenty minutes of a sub-woofer gets my energy out of the windshield.

“Hey, you’re messing with my woman!”  We have an understanding.  She is to be under my wing.  I have violated before, running in a tangent to the graph.  I’ve learned not to overreact.  I concern myself with her soul now.  If battle damage does not sink her ship, we talk afterward and reconstruct the deck.  Before long, her flag runs up the pole again.

Sometimes, we scrub the surface with an acid wash repeating vulgarities met in counseling.  Not always.  Certain words aptly give understanding as only street-talk can do.  Overripe vegetables seem to hide in the corners while carnality drives rancid meat between the cracks.  I help her with brush and soap.  Her maturity stays her hand upon the pole.  Endeavoring through the night, I return to my bunk, but she suffers.

Receiving orders back to the front, brings her craft to enemy waters again.  We go together.  And that’s ok.  Nobility across the waves as we fly under the Master’s flag.

  

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