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

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

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

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