Amber.

Amber.
'Tis just the sap of a tree.
A gem.
Still only semi-precious,
In reality.
It's got no rythm,
It's got no rhyme,
No intricacy,
No flowing lines.
From the earth itself,
As raw, as you could find.
It's shaped and moulded.
Cut and carved.
Pushed and forced,
Into silver frames.
Maybe metal, it's all the same.
It had no amazing beauty,
Now it's uncomfortable,
Around your neck,
In some kind of mock finery.