Stalagmite.

In a sense, those shamefaced viola pansies which quietly perish in my lulling snoopiness somehow blush in tinging crimson. It has certainly been a while since my meddlesomeness lacks a wanting I antecedently cherished so dearly — the trail of timber and sugariness on my fingers. The sudden gimmick of corporeal mysteries, anywise ravishing and tempting, slightly musing. And then there is a crevasse of impassiveness, an equity of hollow vacuity. You — dousing sprite of raindrops, paramour of epicurean revelry. You, sprouting hedonism of wonders, offed consciousness which my elvish core gayly cottons to. How can I construe this nourishment I zestfully rely on, hence drenching in the deepest of mischances, just by touching your intricacies? How can I possibly explain that your onyx whiteness harbours the key to such ecstasy, an intoxicating frenzy, a rapture that snatches all my consciousness and raises toasts to winsomeness? How can I engrave this newfangled mural of unbounded singularities and salacious titillations? Thus the pansy exquisitely curries her breezy lashes, spontaneous as the mirth which coltishly escapes me — unclothed and peeled before my raven eyes, collapsing to the last chiming I worship. You, deadly soul, baleful noxiousness — sire of crystal bedrocks and fathomless monoliths — take me, savour me, graze me, engulf my will and feed it to your cosmic cinder. Let me flourish in your tempo. Let me come upon your heavens. 

Addah Monoceros.