Worn to the brim is the old necklace,
as it's red beads fall to the marble floor.
I find in a way they are feckless,
fickle as they crack and slide, what for?

Is this decay worth attaching meaning?
Will there possess another time,
another callous hand to break weaning,
broken red beads far further as they climb?

There is a voice in the distraught,
a screaming owl in the cacophony-
and as I have been regally taught,
it is inside the mind often he-

forgets what he was saying as he talks-
lost in the cold, uncharted world he walks.