Lust

It is a hunger born of light and line,
A fever waking when the world grows still;
I drink the shadow like a velvet wine
And bend the stubborn chaos to my will.

It is not merely sight, but deeper ache—
The way a charcoal stroke can bruise the eye,
The way the sculpted marble seems to wake
And heave a chest beneath a lungless sky.

I crave the pigment, raw and stained and deep,
The alchemy that bleeds from hand to frame;
It haunts the restless borders of my sleep
And sets the quiet mind to sudden flame.

To capture soul in static, breathless form,
To trap the ghost within a gilded cage,
I weather every aesthetic, inner storm
To leave a jagged scar across the page.

It is a glutton’s feast, a holy greed,
To want the beauty others pass by blind;
I plant the vision like a desperate seed,
And watch the hunger grow, and leave me refined.