For some of us Lust is a Shade.
Not the glorious shade of an elder elm
that grants solace from the heat in midsummer.
It is the Shade of pneuma,
that which others consider evil
but we who see believe otherwise.
For we do see that Shade.
It is fingers, dark and ghastly,
reaching from our unconscious,
spreading like the ink blot of those who analyze.
It's a three-dimensional consciousness behind us,
from our concupiscence
spreading like the legs we seek in fantasy
so we can taste.
We both hate and love this Shade.
To us normal/abnormal,
uncaring, yet still wish repent.
Guilt as dark as the Shade itself.
So we must love the guilt as the Shade.
Enormous beyond our souls,
large and hollow like the lust it never fills.
Because it is Shade
and ne'er has any shade filled a need.
Not even on the hot summer day
when we try to stay cool
but are still so fucking hot!
Because it is naught but shade and heat penetrates it
like we wish to
because that is what our Shade wants us to do.