So Prestige. So Plain.

So Prestige. So Plain.

(Show me his depth, Nocturne; brandish his core.I knew of the less, and now wish of the more.Seething and sore...Be Gold drifting sifts? I'll be naught but bored...)

...though, were he a rock, which stone might he be?
Surely not Amber, with tones lent to greed.
Surely not Emerald, scarred jade of conceit.
Nor Zircon, whose shine belies eyes of the cheap.
I dare not say diamond, for so hard a shell revolts an attraction that may have befell.
I pray be not Topaz, more precious than rare.
He'll swell and compel an increase in the wear.
Not Rubies, or Opals; Sapphires or Quartz.
Their names are all uttered twixt common and forced.

But if a Stalactite, so visually plain.
Shadowed and abrasive, yet growing with age.
An icon of wisdom, suspended by rain.
Consumed by the cold and composed to maintain
an elaborate essence, compelled ere for gain.
Such a rock would he be.

So Prestige. So Plain.