Oh, you ivory child,
Sculpted under white lights,
Chiseled and changed,
Until your splintering cracks were filled
And your rugged edges were smoothed.
Until your sharp points were sanded down
And your insides hollowed out
Until you lost your shine and took on a waxy lustre.
Until you lost your will and youth
Until you were the perfect sculpture,
Until you no longer were a growing thing,
but a thing.
Oh, you ivory child.

- Anna Roy