Clear and precious, valuable weight
wrapped around your neck. True to form,
shards of the earth, bred underground -- a captive gem.
Captures the light and swallows it whole, kept
sacrosanct;
Cool to the touch with fiery thoughts that exhume
nothing; but display blank gorgeousness,
sixty prisms of everything seen and unseen.
Gone is the dirt that bore its grave, yet their eyes remember.
Clean and shining,
sitting pretty in lazy luxury and
resting on your collarbone
with that which was once buried alive, now resurrected
with the near-perfect gleam of The Ideal.
