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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