Seven sins

In the depths of human hearts, a darkness grows,
where seven seeds of sin are sown in rows.
From these foul seeds, a twisted garden flows,
nurtured by the pain that no one knows.
In silence, each corrupted blossom shows
the rot that through our veins and spirits goes.

Pride, the firstborn, stands tall and proud,
its thorny stems reach high above the crowd.
With petals sharp enough to draw blood,
it feeds on praise, a never-ending flood.
Its roots dig deep into the mental mud,
choking out all thoughts of brotherhood.

Greed’s tendrils coil around all they touch,
squeezing life from those who have too much.
Its golden leaves reflect a sickly light,
blinding eyes to others’ desperate plight.
In boardrooms and in alleys, day and night,
it whispers promises of power and might.

Lust blooms red in secret, hidden places,
intoxicating scent draws yearning faces.
Its pollen clouds the mind with base desire,
setting flesh and reputation both afire.
In beds of silk or gutters filled with mire,
it burns until all decency expires.

Envy creeps along the garden floor,
a vine that’s always hungry for more.
Its leaves are green with jealousy and spite,
comparing, coveting from morn to night.
It strangles joy and steals another’s light,
leaving only bitterness in sight.

Gluttony’s fruit hangs heavy on the vine,
tempting all to gorge on food and wine.
Its sweetness masks the poison deep within,
as bellies swell and self-control grows slim.
In excess, we drown our kith and kin,
while others waste away, their bodies grim.

Wrath’s fiery blossoms scorch the earth,
rage and vengeance given terrible birth.
Its petals drip with acid tears of hate,
corroding bonds of love at fearsome rate.
With every slight, real or imaginate,
it spreads its flames, leaving all desolate.

Sloth lies dormant, a fungus in the shade,
sapping will from all who’ve ever strayed.
Its spores of apathy infect the air,
paralyzing those who should repair
the world around them, now beyond compare,
a wasteland born of those who didn’t care.

In this dark garden of the human soul,
where seven sins demand their dreadful toll,
We wander lost, our spirits rent and torn,
our better nature trampled and forsworn.
No light remains, all hope forever shorn,
in endless night, we wish we’d never been born.