Bonta's short poem is about addiction as a kind of hunger that can never be fed. The speaker is surrounded by abundance, yet nothing satisfies, and that is the painful center of it.
The opening image is odd and striking. "Granaries of sleep" suggests storehouses full of grain, a place of plenty and rest, but the speaker says "I burn." Even in sleep, where we expect peace, desire keeps going. The second stanza turns to the endless "variety of pictures," and then delivers the blow: the speaker takes "no pleasure in the sight of them." Craving remains while enjoyment has gone.
The last lines give the idea its sharpest form. "The greatest plenty turns / to absence in my hands." Everything on offer dissolves the moment it is held. The mood is bleak, restless, and lonely. The speaker sounds ashamed and worn out rather than defiant, and the spare, quiet lines make the emptiness feel even heavier.