I am a jealous thing,
Prickled with green and bitter
Envy, feathered jealously,
Dusted with desperation.
I am always in flight of
A lover, an enemy,
Anyone to bond with my
Covetous and ignorant
Soul; a pulsing, fleshy hole
Which housed the emerald throne
On my winged back.
Now, you are very pretty,
But you are not quite like me,
Bountiful in quality
But lacking any substance.
That is all I ever am,
Full of substance.
What substance fills my being?
Vitreous stardust pickled
In Elysian fields of cool,
Sneering grass.
Grass? I am a total ***,
Green and made to be grazed;
No flight
With wings of jealous construct.
You
Fly to ever higher heights,
While envy-ground and I will
Forever stare greenly up
At the marvelous form of
You.