I Envy The Statue

The dead statue stares me down, as I weep.
It feels as though my soul will shatter in one small gust of wind.
I brace myself for a hurricane of pain, only to recieve peace.
I waited for the anguish to overlap the newfound happiness.
It was safe to say that in reality there was no happiness or pain.
Only the illusion of what we think is being felt.
The piercing eyes of the stone idividual stares down into what is left of me.
I may have broken down on the outside, but was I ever alright in the first place?
The face of the rock being beside me was still and immortal.
If only I were like that statue, never to have to feel the false feeling of pain.
How I envy it.
To never have to feel pain, or hate, jealousy, or sadness.
I envy this statue.
I continue to cry, hoping my wish would magically be real.
I didn't want to feel the cold air swirling around me, or the smothering heat that would soon come from my own bitterness.
I envy the statue.





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