Its way of being salient-
And so picturesque with bloodstains
On its edges.
Its way of being so united-
And so whole with fragments
In its core.
Its way of being so innocent-
And so angelic with rust feeding
On its being.
Its way of being so joyous-
And so blissful with despondency eating
At its soul.
With flame to it,
And such spirit to it, there’s-
Much acedia thriving.
With humility to it,
And such amity, there’s-
Much superbia thriving.
With satisfaction to it,
And much contentment, there’s-
Much avaritia thriving
With candour to it,
And much modesty, there’s
Much calliditas thriving.
Its fumes, when do vanish-
They do vanish wholly to
show the nymph it is.
Its tenderness, when does vanish-
It does vanish wholly to
show the scales there are.
Its carnality, when does vanish-
It does vanish wholly to
Show the bane over the wine…
Report 17
The acedia
was increasing.
A bullfinch
approved it.
Urinalysis:
hallelujah.
The goat
was bareheaded
and factual.
There was
a small erythema
in the banknote.
We were
not alarmed.
We were
ceremonious.
Again,
the antiproton
asked for proof.
No proof
was available.
The hawfinch
was responsible.
?
Fateful design seeks an
Answer divine
And yet that answer shows itself not
And so the fire,
Burns with desire,
And threatens to char us all.
Hatred- the rage that burns inside
Fulfillment- the purpose,
The truth
Tension coiled;
Our flesh starts to boil,
As we find that there is no release.
Desperate searching,
Our breathing now lurching,
Collapsing beneath our full weight.
Sorrow- too stoic to realize it’s there
Ecstasy- now faded,
still fleeting
Bottled beneath
And gnashing our teeth
We tear at ourselves to release
Bleeding profuse,
We fail to diffuse,
And bottled-up emotions shall stay.
Love- gone and replaced with lust-stained
despair
Longing- alas, it remains,
Still pertains
“Can’t you see my empty shell forlorn?
Blackening inside of my affliction?”
-Ronnie Nyman of Nightrage
Idle hands scorching a trail
Through the Capitol
Closed mouths and hearts turn daggers
Biting our own tongues
And the streets are red rivers
Through which they drive
golden chariots over the backs
of their forefathers
Words falter, slave and master
plebeian and patrician
And whips silence in return
They dream of a revolt
While breaking their necks to bow
We do protest hotly
In secret chambers
Tear down the throne!
Hang the tyrants!
A bloody revolution!
Let's then schedule it for the
King's convenience
Hear she comes, most lovely
She'd slit our throats
With pleasure
O Gods save our Queen!
She'll pluck this acedia
from our cold dead hands!
Slaughter the innocent
Distract us with wars!
O Brutus save us from
our apathy!
What will it take
for our walls to break?
O give us liberty
or at least grain at
our own price!
Give us our tribunes!
There can be no
Republic until
the people speak
themselves
-------------
Inspired by my research for a story. This deals specifically with the establishment of the
Roman Republic, but plenty of this still rings true to me. Acedia = apathy.
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