Completed: 2024-11-20
O Sin, O Painting, O Imagined Sky!
Feed my burgeoning mind until I fall;
Let sickly golden honey cover all;
Amuse me while I don’t yet have to die.
And let your lustful art swallow me whole,
Show me how rich and red my blood can flow,
In lurid dreams that pass me soft and slow,
And for you I offer my weary soul.
For I have never had a compass clear,
My ship is steered by the winds of my heart,
It only beats for this amoral art,
But I feel that an end is coming near.
When I lie in my bed, withered and old,
I know that I will find many a fault
With how I emptied youth’s fertile vault
And left old age with little, bare and cold.
But I can hope that time will never come,
And waste my days in passions bright and hot,
And taste fresh sweat before it starts to rot,
For what is life when youth is not its sum?