Perhaps the hairpin pupil of a child’s eye,
is where all the lost things go to hide,
burrowed back in the folds,
of underdeveloped matter,
in a squishy skull,
soft down hair spattered,
in our moments of regression,
it’s shame that burns our eyes,
and blinds our senses,
So then all things lost,
live in the foggy memory of our evolution,
the grey landscape we can’t trace,
our collective infinite delusion.