Plum Tuckered Out

Plum Tuckered Out

He is stuck there now.
The rut provides peace.
The same draws lines of safety in an unsafe world.
The control gives comfort where comfort looks for refuge.

The sliced plum and arugula salad, night after night.
All the senses are satisfied, satiated. 
Routine of majestic fruit on bitter greens and
We call it a night.

And the purple moutains majesty
In the west and the setting sun on the back
Of an indigo sky with the windswept hues of purple
Soothe the gut punch life gives, the bruising from a day in a life.

She is stuck there now.
The rut provides  peace.
The same draws lines of safety in an unsafe world.
The control gives comfort where comfort looks for refuge.

And the song hems in a world with a simple line of love.
They hear it, play it over and over, like stuck vinyl record
Amazing grace how sweet
Every funeral, every church, every man.
Cannot get enough, give enough amazing grace, grape juice, wine,
The crushed grapes become liquid, life-giving, the bread, the body, the transaction at the rail.
And grace. The hole is deep and wide and needs filling, like the dying need a blood transfusion, purple nectar sustains the living
With grace. 

Cannot get enough of amazing grace how sweet the sound
It saves us in its repetition of the truth.
Draws us in with the familiar strains.
No need for reaching for the hymnal we all know it by
Heart, even those with bruises, no especially those with the bruises.
We all have bruises. We all fall short, we all fall down.

That grace covers a multitude of sin
No, love does that
And if we count the number of times we’ve sung Amazing Grace.

We all fall short
So we sing it till we sing it blind and weak
And till we’re buried beneath the wisteria vines in the old cemetery down the road.
And we’re all plum tuckered out.
But grace never is.

They are stuck there now.
The rut provides peace.
The same draws lines of safety in an unsafe world.
The control gives  comfort where comfort gives refuge.

And they all, each one, seek sips of grace from the cup
Given by the royal Priest who gently heals the battered and bruised.
And wears humbly his royal garment of Healing and Comfort.
And we’re all just plum tuckered out,

in need of
grace.

I am joining Tweetspeak Poetry for this month’s poetry prompt — purple, plum and indigo. So I am shading my words in these hues. And joining Laura for her Playdates at The Wellspring. One of my favorite places in the blogosphere.