'Ivory' Tusks And Friends

Shoulders bare denuded cloth so frail silken whispers hang from her wind pipe. Inside four chambers of her heart my music beckons there in blood, i stand then sit, as both my hands reach out. Gather now the shroud of sand in grains from golden honey pots. The bees in flight can never find. Many are the tusks you claim as friends, I carried them away but weary, now i tire as i turn from sand to dust. My stones, you claim in time, as yours not mine. When faces take a bath and light of golden sun.