Thinkers know souls do not live in ivories
hollow husks vacuous and cold
carrying echoes of timed passages in plasma
dense of spirit it intrudes pointedly
glossed in armed menace shimmering forebodingly
despoilers in sharpened abstractions
lifeless  albeit to dig dirt route attack and lock horns
but for the graces of its distinguished hosts
in which ivories bask in reflected glory
the soulless tusks now deemed worthy as objects cherished
yet they are nowt but dead shells