Pride like a peacock in

his rich blues, greens, yellows

stands tall— overshadows

his brothers. Or so he thinks.


Greed’s safe bulges with gold,

locked in chains.

The key is “lost,” even for

a starved child, a homeless man.


Lust is cloaked in goat furs—

when he’s even dressed at all.

He strips with graceful power.

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?


Envy snakes in silence, stares—

his pupils vertical slits.

He marks his prey, he slithers;

he licks his lips, he slavers.


Gluttony talks in grunts, snorts.

Cheese, chicken, fish, sausage, bread

a constant guest in his hand.

The guests do not remain long.


Wrath does not walk. He charges.

His eyes wild, mane red, he roars.

His whisper louder than a

pride of deafening lions.


Sloth drapes himself across chair,

floor, sofa, other people.

Where he is, is where he lives.

A snail. A slug. A maggot.



One Comment on “Seven

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