Another poem

I wrote this poem a couple weeks ago:

She adorned those intricate pearls that hung loosely from her neck
ever since they were received from an elder,
they nestled her chest in selective alignment
never was a day when the beads angled slighlty to the right in a perpendicular motion
evidence claimed she would not approve
such distaste, they could never become diverse
everything she owned had significance
everything she owned created a perfect existence

At one time those pearls had been excuisite and full of character
her timeless beads were now tainted with dust,
thrown carelessly to the side
they no longer held that potent luster they once had
I even recall them portraying a silky pink enamel,
though it seems it has been scraped and torn, down to a dull grey
what happened, had they not met her standard of obsession?
like always, there were more tender, elaborate things to add to her diminishing collection