Satellites

Sometimes i get the feeling that this really never was my home
A 1957 kind of heaven sent remote control
A boring bird a bitter word a re-recurring picture show
We watch together tracking weather barely tethered from below

We hover high an open eye to always see just where we are
The subdivisions subdividing and colliding bare their scars
A washing dish a ripping stitch nothing is missing no one's far

Wind up cloud wind up sky
Sees the rain turn to snow
Sees the rain turn to snow again
There is no more to know here
There is nothing more to know here

Our wings are urgently diverging feeling set upon the sun
Our welded skeletons are relatively ready to be gone
The cities merge the lights converge the buzzing blurs into a single sigh

See the satellite seceding
Here in the headlights
At a haunted height
We roll our eyes back up into our heads