Envy;
It touches the best of us,
If we’re lucky, it all but passes us by,
Merely brushing the outer layer,
But, more oft than not,
It is able to soak through our all-too-vulnerable skin,
Soaked in with the torrential rain of resentment,
Nestling into our hearts, poisoning the blood
With discontentment and greed;
And we covet and hate, seethe and simmer,
Until that weak flame of goodness
Dims to barely a glimmer;
As the witching hour draws near,
It is clear that the cunning, acid-green
Seed of spite has taken firm root deep within,
And it grows, alarmingly rapid, choking, dominating,
Until there is little room for anything else.