Numbered seven
for sure treasured thing
blush at the cliché
the inevitable ring
strangely it seems
inactive, inert
curiously behaves
as if its dull as dirt
well except at times
it swirls as if reflecting clouds
and a cloth drawn through it
spun silk from shrouds
and the people who all owned it
ended dead or mad
and yet everyone who sees it
tends to want it bad
and no one knows what it's made of
and it changes size
and when I slipped it on
I swear I felt a thousand eyes
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