Oh, conscious stones--
These diamond remain adamantine,
unless thrown into even
the smallest amount
of melted beeswax,
where they liquefy and settle
near the bottom
like churlish clouds,
sullenly stirred tendrils of
a man's silver hair,
pools of magma filling tender
Vesuvia urns, decreed encased
until frozen long enough for
dauntless alchemy to occur;
silk-like substance
will shatter all our confines
and stretch
as uncages light into
the open air, curling as
glass formed by random
injections of heat into
ancient sands and rising in
waves to form
hips, breasts,
unfolding in colors splayed in
fragments across limbs, stomach,
hair, eyes colorblind, and
fists that clutch fallen
bricks like tattered goose feathers
and burning bundles
of chaste paper,
a body to beg for candles
and honey.
Trey--there's nothing here for you.
Not one bit.
Well, maybe this.
I'd click this if I were you. 