You lie awake with eyes sewn tight,
nevermore will you yearn,
for rewards you have not won,
nor, in your lifetime, earned.

Envy has you in its frozen grasp,
your cold heart, icy fingers bind,
it is not hunger that feeds and gnaws
upon your churning, burning mind.

Need, twisting deep within your soul,
a choking, clinging vine,
sucking up your happiness,
leaving hollowness behind.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 7th of Khepary, in the year 495 MA.