Crystallised

When one mentions the word crystallised, what comes to mind may be of beauty and elegance, of brilliant angles that catches the light and reflects the subtleties of the different colours that split in its prisms. But being crystallised is also being trapped, being stoned in a fixed place, unable to move, unable to be free. Being forever prisoner in a palace that is cold and hard, yet oh of what grandeur. As people admire the brilliance of its sparkle, the soul trapped within is encased in everlasting solitude, cut off with cries that fall on deaf ears. The falsity is ubiquitous, the beauty only surface. Crystalline, so tantamount to greatness and yet ironically equivalent to pity. Is this a world of lost hope? Where smiles are merely plastered and laughs are but empty sound waves? How far has this world been crystallised? How long have we seen things with rose coloured glasses? How many a time have we admired the sparkles and forsaken the silent screams? If we can melt the crystals and set free the rigidity that binds the matter, would it be a sacrifice worth it? Or should the mysterious aura of the ones crystallised remain to be admired by the rest with the sacrifice of desolation behind closed doors?