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OF THEE I AM JEALOUS
Of thee I am jealous, of the way you lay repose, next to that burning flame, on top of that wooden catafalque. Of thee I am jealous, the way your arms are crossed over thy chest, the way your eyes lay closed and the way you lie unbreathing. Of thee I am jealous, of your crisp suit, of your faded skin and of your deathly lips. Of thee I am jealous, of the song of silence on your lips, of the stationary winds in your hair, of your airless breath and of your unseeing sight, of time that you cannot count, even as it flits by. Oh my heart is burning, not with grief but with envy. Where are you headed, and why do you leave me here? In your death you have peace, and you have left me to the world, left me with the chaos and left me with the grief. Oh you have escaped the sharp talons of life. You have escaped the sad laughter and the exaggerated glee. You have run away from overrated happiness and you have saved yourself from all this vanity. I am jealous that you leave while I stay. It should have been me, on the way to my grave. It should have been me, that was getting sung about, that was taken into the ground. It should have been me that sprouted as a tree. It should have been me, who received the flowers and the praises, the prayers and the concern. It should have been me, laying where you are, staring at death, starved of life, robbed of ruin and trouble. Of thee I am jealous, that you have met your end, and you have left me still on the way, lonely and worn out, but I still have to walk. Go on and consume your peace, and I shall not complain about my conflicts. Go on and partake of your happiness, and I shall not rue this despair that you have left me. Life is a processing plant, and I shall impatiently wait for my turn.

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