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Elizabeth  Feb 2014
Elizabeth Feb 2014
If I had religion, and it pulsed through my veins like it does in some,
I'd recant all the sins I have committed since I met you:
Lust, envy, pride, wrath, greed, and gluttony.
But instead I decant the Seven Deadly Sins inside of me:
Lust, envy, pride, wrath, greed, and gluttony,
Everything except the acedia that you stole away forever.
Acedia: apathy, boredom, sloth
Sam Oliver Jan 2011
“Despite all your love for your fellow man, God has gone out of his way to poison you.” I said. The man had been a wreck for most of his life, and the time was right to reap his poor soul. “You have gained nothing that didn't hurt you in the end.” A visible tear rolling down his face, his eyes stared, watery at the back of her head as she walked away.

“People keep speaking of hope and perseverance...” I whispered, his friend putting his hand on this poor man's shoulder, right beside me and offering condolences as I continued to talk. “...But that's what got you this far. Hope is the only reason you are still alive after years of torturing yourself, living amongst these uncaring philistines who consider themselves people, doing everything you can to better their lives, all they give you is grief.” I ended with a bit of a chuckle. He shrugged off his friend's helpful words and separated from him.

“The Bible is an old relic. Judging by your life thus far, do you really think he'd make a place for you in his Heaven?” He stood on a bridge, staring out into the night sky. Even the stars and the moon would not shine on his this cloudy night... What a perfect time to hit him where it hurt... “You aren't worthy. You were born ugly, you have been battered and bruised by everyone you have ever loved, despite many of them claiming the same love of you.” I said. The man had struggled all his life to be loved and this, his twentieth failed attempt, was sure to be his last, the final straw in a life of suffering at the hands of others. Doubtless, he was remembering those many nights where things had looked joyful, only to deceive him of the troubles ahead.

“God has done nothing if not lied to you your whole life. He's taken away all your joy! He's taken your will to laugh, to enjoy the simple things!” I continued, a smug grin spreading across my lips as he walked towards downtown. “Is this the kind of God who would grant you a place among angels? Surely not.” He walked into a pawn shop, his eyes scanning through the armaments laid out before him. Fortunately for me, this day had been a long time coming, and he had previously applied for a  license. He picked out the cheapest pistol available and a small box of rounds. “You are not human in the eyes of men or God and thus, you cannot be saved.” He smiled a fake smile and waved a goodbye to the store owner as he made his way back out. He turned into the first empty back alley he could find.

He rifled through his items, readying the gun in one hand, one of the bullets in the other. His whole body shook in fear and nervousness. “So, lift the cannon,” He held the gun at about chest-height. “Load the charge,” He slid the chamber back to where he could manually load the single shot and slipped it in. “**** it.” He put the chamber back in place, so the gun could properly do its job. “Take it to your 'holy temple'.” He broke out in loud sobs, using his thumb to pull back the hammer.

“Pull the trigger and let the peace of nothing wash over your poor animal soul.” The deed was done. The man no longer suffered the slings and arrows of this world. Instead, he would dangle forever in the halls of Hell from the trees of tristitia...
Alfred Vassallo Apr 2013
Luxuria (Lust)

Asmodeus demon of lust
carnal manipulator
****** captor

Castitas (Chastity)

Embracing virtue
honorable wholesomeness
not through one’s weakness

Gula (Gluttony)

The egocentricity
with which the Lord of the flies
upon us relies

Temperantia (Temperance)

practicing restraint
prudence to judge with regard
remaining on guard

Avaritia (Greed)

The Mammon demon
controlling the warmonger
with vows of power.

Caritas (Charity)

Crave unselfishness
give unreserved empathy
love and sympathy

Acedia (Sloth)

Deny grace and God
so evil shall become fact  
when we fail to act

Industria (Diligence)

Fortitude is a must
persistence in conviction
zealous for passion

Ira (Wrath)

In its purest form
presents violence and hate
Satan’s fate

Patientia (Patience)

mercy to haters
receiving the grace to forgive
rewards are massive

Superbia (Pride)

Lucifer’s downfall
for excessive vanity
destroys humility

Humanitas (Kindness)

Sympathy without bias
belief without bitterness
inspire kindness

Invidia (Envy)

resentful passion
an insatiable desire
potent cause of dire

Humilitas (Humility)

think of yourself less
and not think less of yourself
don’t exalt oneself
NOTE:- This is made up of 14 Haikus based on the seven deadly sins as opposed to the seven virtues
scatterquilt Apr 2011
Confined with restlessness.
And yet we struggle.
It ***** you from becoming.
Like a daffodil thief, they say.
The shadows will lure you.
From the darkness you made.

What is worth to live then,
When love was so elusive.
And beauty was perfected.
Is it to sacrifice, or to obey?  
Which options do you fancy?

Unfamiliar faces
and more aching angles
where is your bliss,
when passion was misplaced
Until the times that I would gladly fall.
And to where my shepherd meets me.

let life be a mystery
And a mess to those who persecutes it.
When evil must be known
from the nature of good.
If I died and went to heaven...
what then am I afraid of?

Just think of me, my Lord.
like whom you are to me.
s  Nov 2018
acedia, aphasia
s Nov 2018
the empty
contour of yesterday
turns on itself

i reach in ...
toward oblivion

blind bliss

in search of
a blank simulacrum

any way to sin

anyone to satisfy
my evil soul within
who do you call to make the shootin' stop?
aisyahaffandey  May 2017
aisyahaffandey May 2017
A pleasure
A bliss
An acedia
Remembrance is a pain
Despise hurts
Offensive repugnance
A blessing
A sovereignty
An ******
To let mind dwell away
The Earth, carved with misery and desolation
A labyrinth of tranquility
A quest for placidity
A warfare out of blue
A cure of the old wounds
But not to neglect your mortal shield
As oblivion is addictive
You'll crave for soft darkness
As you embark on a journey to Lethe
K G  Jan 2017
An Ending
K G Jan 2017
We slipped into our socks, eyes were closed
Soaking boldly within us, acedia's warm coat
View the clement fate, endless reaches cold
Every step lead to atrophy past the belt post

City's first pinching, whipped us into a storm
They pin down our wings so we'd conform
Every breath is an option to plummet or soar
Yet like a moth, i'm drifting down to the floor
Garrett  May 2013
Garrett May 2013
Ancillary Artery Athena
An Abstract Apparition
Attracting Adorned Artistry
Adamant Affection
Abdicated Acedia
Te escribo desde un puerto.
        La mar salvaje llora.
Salvaje, y triste, y solo, te escribo abandonado.
Las olas funerales redoblan el vacío.
Los megáfonos llaman a través de la niebla.
La pálida corola de la lluvia me envuelve.
        Te escribo desolado.
        El alma a toda orquesta,
        la pena a todo trapo,
te escribo desde un puerto con un gemido largo.
¡Ay focos encendidos en los muelles sin gente!
¡Ay viento con harapos de música arrastrada,
campanas sumergidas y gargantas de musgo!
        Te escribo derrotado.
        Soy un hombre perdido.
        Soy mortal. Soy cualquiera.
Recuerdo la ceniza de su rostro de nardo,
el peso de tu cuerpo, tus pasos fatigosos,
tu luto acumulado, tu montaña de acedia,
tu carne macilenta colgando en la butaca,
        tus años carcelarios.
        Caliente y sudorosa,
        obscena, y triste, y blanda,
la butaca conserva, femenina, aquel asco.
La pesadumbre bruta, la pena ******, dulce,
las manchas amarillas con su propio olor acre,
esa huella indecente de un hombre que se entrega,
        lo impúdico: tu llanto.
        Viviendo, viendo, oyendo,
        sucediéndote a ciegas,
lamiendo tus heridas, reptabas por un fango
de dulces linfas gordas, de larvas pululantes,
letargos vegetales y muertes que fecundan.
Seguías, te seguías sin vergüenza, viviendo,
        ¡oh blando y desalmado!
        Tú, cínico, remoto,
        dulce, irónico, triste;
tú, solo en tu elemento, distante y desvelado.
No era piedad la anchura difusa en que flotabas
con tu sonrisa ambigua. Fluías torpemente,
pasivo, indiferente, cansado como el mundo,
        sin un yo, desarmado.
        Estaciones, transcursos,
        circunstancias confusas,
oceánicos hastíos, relojes careados,
eléctricos espartos, posos inconfesables,
naufragios musicales, materias espumosas
y noches que tiritan de estrellas imparciales,
        te hicieron más que humano.
        Allí todo se funde.
        Los objetos no objetan.
Liso brilla lo inmenso bajo un azul parado
y en las plumas sedantes la luz del mundo escapa,
sonríe, tú sonríes, remoto, indiferente,
*******, grotesco, triste, cruel, fatal, adorado
        como un ídolo arcaico.
        Sin intención, sin nombre,
        sin voluntad ni orgullo,
promiscuo, sucio, amable, canalla, nivelado,
capaz de darte a todo, común, diseminabas
podrido las semillas amargas que revientan
en la explosión brillante de un día sin memoria.
        No eras ni alto ni bajo.
        La doble ala del fénix:
        furor, melancolía,
el temblor luminoso de la espira absorbente;
la lluvia consentida que duerme en los pianos;
las canciones gangosas lentamente amasadas;
los ojos de paloma sexuales y difuntos;
        cargas opacas; pactos.
        Caricias o perezas,
        extensiones absortas
en donde a veces somos tan tercamente abstractos
y otras veces los pelos fosforecen sexuales,
y fría, dulce, ansiosa, la lisa piel de siempre,
serpiente, silba, sorbe y envuelve en sus anillos
        un triste cuerpo amado.
        No hay clavo último
        no hay centro diamantino,
no hay dignidad posible cuando uno ha visto tanto
y está triste, está triste, sencillamente triste,
se entrega atribulado y en lo efímero sabe
ser otro con los otros, de los otros, en otros:
        seguir, seguir flotando.
        ¡Oh inmemorial,
oh amigo
        amorfo, indiferente!
Deslizándote denso de plasmas milenarios,
tardío, legamoso de vidas maceradas,
cubierto de amapolas nocturnas, indolente,
por tu anchura sin ojos ni límites, acuosa,
        te creía acabado.
        Mas hoy vuelves, proclamas,
        constructor, la alegría;
te desprendes del caos; determinas tus actos
con voluntad terrena y aliento floral, joven.
Ni más ni menos que hombre, levantas tu estatua,
recorres paso a paso tu más acá, lo afirmas,
        llenas tu propio espacio.
        Los jóvenes obreros,
        los hombres materiales,
la gloria colectiva del mundo del trabajo
resuenan en tu pecho cavado por los siglos.
Los primeros motores, las fuerzas matinales,
la explotación consciente de una nueva esperanza
        ordenan hoy tu canto.
        Contra tu propia pena,
        venciéndote a ti mismo,
apagando, olvidando, tú sabes cuánto y cuánto,
cuánta nostalgia lenta con cola de gran lujo,
cuánta triste sustancia cotidiana amasada
con sudor y costumbres de pelos, lluvias, muertes,
        escuchas un mandato.
        Y animas la confianza
        que en ti quizá no existe;
te callas tus cansancios de liquen resbalado;
te impones la alegría como un deber heroico.
¡Por las madres que esperan, por los hombres que aún ríen,
debemos de ponernos más allá del que somos,
        sirviéndolos, matarnos!
        Con rayos o herramientas,
        con iras prometeicas,
con astucia e insistencia, con crueldad y trabajo,
con la vida en un puño que golpea la hueca
cultura de una Europa que acaricia sus muertos,
con todo corazón que, valiente, aún insiste,
        del polvo nos alzamos.
        Cantemos la promesa,
        quizá tan solo un niño,
unos ojos que miran hacia el mundo asombrados,
mas no interrogan; claros, sin reservas, admiran.
¡Por ellos combatimos y a veces somos duros!
¡Bastaría que un niño cualquiera así aprobara
        para justificarnos!
        Te escribo desde un puerto,
        desde una costa rota,
desde un país sin dientes, ni párpados, ni llanto.
Te escribo con sus muertos, te escribo por los vivos,
por todos los que aguantan y aún luchan duramente.
Poca alegría queda ya en esta España nuestra.
        Mas, ya ves, esperamos.

— The End —