Sattelite song.

Glaring as a sun-smothered orb;
up all night, electric isolation—
pulses wave through rhythms,
deafheaven or desolated aether,
turning on, inwards and upward.

Lives pass by in luminous disguise;
flesh by flesh, in the deep of night,
touch, a vice, t’ward the sky,
and memory— oh subside,
cold as a bleak mid-winter dream;

relentless, reckless, a horror, seems.