We had this priest come and talk to us on the feast day of St. Joseph and so strangely he mentioned a girl would know the right guy because he'd be willing to sacrifice his dreams for hers and for God's. Not only am I not a god, requiring sacrifice, but my dreams so often don't follow the path I imagine God would dream of. I suppose, at one point, it's Him or me.
Seven deadly pink roses waiting on my windowsill;
terrorized in their muted fuchsia,
fiery spirit festering and still
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem