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
creeping slow
on towards
searing,
greedy,
hot red.
As if drinking, in the darkness
of lower light and conscious
my sleeping breaths
morphed you into
a grand prophet
but I am not
goddess,
gold idol.
Are you looking for your god here?
I am mud and a whisper of light;
without sight and rich with fear.
Searching for cosmic love,
you kiss ornate images of
starlight down dripping
from heaven's favor
into my bored eyes.