Recycled Ring

A grandmother, age lost in the hay long ago,
Is cherished by her grandchildren.
A handsome boy, a darling girl, and let's not forget me.
Lifeless, cold, lost and expired,
But the round peice of metallic trash fertilises, allowing you to florish once more.
It binds your soul rather than embellish your pedicle,
Peicing the puzzle and mending the cracks,
Replacing the peices of what we had left.
Not a soul could imagine how near I keep it to my beating organ,
It drags memories of both cheerfulness and hopelessness in its presence.
Burnished and lustrous- it is not,
But dingy, discoloured, shabby and worn,
Though; they are flowers- are they not?
Flowers wilt, fading, fading, fading, fading,
Until they are no more.
There were two bejeweled daisies but now only one remains,
The center, a zeal teal.
The other? Who would know,
It was lost in the hay, long ago.