Lust is no more physical than love.
Feeling is the fuel that feeds that fire,
A flame that might, controlled, pure pleasure prove.
The language of the psyche is desire.
One is dragged towards ecstasy by need:
For power, vengeance, salience, self-esteem.
One wants sometimes to make one's landscape bleed,
To penetrate the borders of the dream.
Lust's a fantasy, sometimes made real,
Oft sustained by willful ignorance.
The more one sees, the more one's apt to feel
A need for what the love of others grants.
Within love's bounds, lust can be a joy;
Outside of love, it is a child's toy.
