Lust

It lingers in
her fingertips;
it lingers in
her lungs.

It lingers in the corners
of her brain,
and (even now) it lingers
in her heart.

She breathes it out,
she breathes it in;

the stages of her ritual sin:

her intoxication,
her ailment, her plague;

her heaven, her hell,
played out upon the stage

locked away
in the darkest of dungeons
so that no one may see.

Clearly, these are are bridges
not to be crossed
in any state of conscious thought.

Clearly, these are bridges
not to be crossed
by any state of moral thought.

None of this matters to her
anymore.

Lust is addictive.
Lust is extreme.
Lust is comfort.
Lust is hers to behold.