Chiho Aoshima

My lips drop, a penny for the displacement of hope

Tell me only that which I, in stupefaction seek

Sanity is too fluid to enslave or replicate

There are no grownups only pilfered nests

And feral eggs that feast upon extraneous instinct

When I die I shall embed a stone crown

That my suchness may remain entitled to occupancy

To be infinite is itself a transient state

And yet entire lives are spent sorting labels