Envy is a curious thing;
It wonders half the world
While the mind is still unsure.

This is not about me,
It is about someone I knew who chose to walk away
Who left his eccentricities, his whims,
His odour, his breath in the gust of the air
And thought it was permanence;
Who believed that in mere act of ultimate rebellion
He will usurp the kingdom of heaven.

There he lay now,
I see his mangled body from up here,
Rotting in the sewer of filth and dissipation.
And I pity his naiveté,
For I fear that my envy
Towards him, his singular moment of glory
Might engulf me
Overwhelm me with the thought
Of living for a single moment
Keeping nothing for the remains of the hours.


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