Seven

I.

a gray fog

of

ennui.

cloud dragging.

life dreaming.

complacency is the thief of adventure.

mundane musings and

blowing languid bubbles.

sleep,

a lazy lover,

a lackluster life

to live.

II.

an ego so big,

it blocks out the beauty.

choking on indigo airs,

coughing up the venomous vapor

of conceit and vanity

and trudging through the muddy mess

of narcissism at your feet.

III.

abundance of,

well,

everything.

ripened, raw, ravenous.

drunk on mania and a weak will

a thick wine, a thick line

between sustenance and surplus.

gorging to gorge,

gobbling to gain,

volatile and voracious

and an appetite to die for.

IV.

a rich sense of avarice.

longing, languishing,

a love for luster.

all that glitters

has always been gold,

will always be gold,

will always look more glossy

than your yesterday.

every yesterday

becomes useless,

and every tomorrow is needed

today.

soon.

now.

V.

a curse.

a malevolent stare.

an eye of ill intent.

a window to the soul that,

if you peek into,

you see nothing but suffocating vines

and mistake the snakes for snares.

a heavy resentment,

a toxic poison,

a slow, growing, spiteful grudge.

VI.

if you dig past the satin and silk,

rummage around the moans and groans,

get lost in the fervor and primal energy,

you will find the flame.

an insatiable itch,

in the very pits of the gut.

forest fire. body fire.

a fast, all-encompassing frenzy.

VII.

a slow, never-ending burn.

fuel.

the pouring and pouring of anger

into a body

turns it into a boiling point,

a method of war.

controlled madness and bloody battle,

the scorch marks of scorn

are permanently engraved in the earth,

a desert-land that shows you nothing is left.