Satellite song.

Glaring as a sun-smothered orb,

up all night, electric isolation—
pulses wave through rhythms,
deafheaven or desolate aether,
turning on, inward, upward.

Lives pass by in luminous disguise,

flesh by flesh, in the deep of night,
touch, a vice, aside the sky,
and memory— oh subside,
cold as a bleak mid-winter dream,

relentless, reckless, a horror, seems.