A Hidden Symbolism Poem by Robert Stoddard

This object of which I’ve found,
a symbol that has far off bounds.

Its color has been darkened to grey,
a consequence of the sorrows that within it lay.
Each piece of it guided by a blackened string
combining each secretive and demented sting.
They sit alternating from even to odd,
but all bearing scratches that upon them trod.

Each one’s no more important than the next.
Components repel, yet they seem to nest.
Separated for now, they’ll befriend mutually soon.
Enticed to form a circle, the same as the moon.

It wants to consecrate good from whence there was none,
then pridefully display it as the noonday sun.

This object thirsts to be revered and known.
But it’s chained to my wrist, never on its own.
It’s fate, like mine, seems forever cursed
until its veil of worthlessness bursts.
Until its potential is acknowledged and found,
until by a pearl, its potential is found.