Lust is a wild-maned stallion, with its eyes
glazed and a restless fever sprawling down
its flanks. And when you mount it, you spread out
your legs wide, feel that heat suffuse through thighs
clenched against tautness, skin on unquiet skin.
You feel it rise, swollen, in your belly,
that hunger from the garden of earthly
delights, a prurient secret held within...
And then you ride – like an earthquake torn
from the steppes. You ride – and the wind streams past
you like fire. You ride – and the frenzy lasts
until the vast, final aftertremor
flings your exhausted rapture to the dust.
Fading in the distance, the stallion, lust.