Without lust, I find myself mostly without purpose–
lust for knowledge
lust for exploration
lust for touch
lust for food
lust for drink
though often, a lackluster view of life.

Why do I torture myself with these securities,
these insecurities?
Is it a lacking, a lusting, a limping?

Fervently I contemplate
the ways to negate,
though lust returns fertilely.

Like the mucro of a leaf,
I believe
I am the point, the shape, the telos
of all telos—the end of the end.

This lust for certainty
is a retention of my ability
to become free,
believing my mucro to be

Fallacy! I proclaim,
with my breath
lacking nothing but lust—

a purpose, a trust,
where limping is not the necessity
for a deceptive lust;
where the mucro
is not within touch.