Ebbing and flowing words and thoughts wander
my sole warm desert; a snowflake meander
with streetlights rages.
Why? Thou do nothing, but let thy eyes shine,
skin covers the soft skin; but if I praise thine
I'm eyed with felt scorn.
My sand's been heated and formed sharp crystals.
Them glacial attacks and floods seem distal
once there's fertile glass.
Pure crystal is rare and also fragile;
hence I ask of thee but to be agile,
so as not to break
it for my own sake.
Thus, I promise thee there'll be no wonder
more worthy of praise than that, I finder,
will for thee bring forth;
and then, into my crystal heart thou'll morph.