I also provided a small example:
Lex gazed at the boy, longing like scirocco winds--that desert force which makes continents cower surging across the sands and Mediterranean sea--tearing relentlessly at the tentflaps of his heart, desire a handmaiden within it spilling wine upon handwoven rugs, the patterns descending the generations, meaningless in their poetry. His eye beheld him, the satrap of each province in his soul so previously a wasteland of hoofprints tread so lightly upon the sand, a song of nothing but that Clark gave it note and reason. Oh, minstrel light upon the lute and glad unto his eye! Blessed Conqueror! Every hew and sinew within his frame longed to open the oasis gates, the hidden city, the marble of its walls rose-hued with sunrise, to such a welcome horde as every glance from those peridot eyes, lashes as palmfronds rustling life and gentle breeze into the garden of his once uneasy mind, lulled by the water-soft weft and flow, the rise and fall of those lashes, silk and rose-petals strewn upon the garden path.
It's good to indulge the purple once in a while! *g*