The Satellite

Who’s to say what Atom arrangement matters, Or that it does it all? It perpetuates dishonest self-importance. Broken chains scattered across our universal gulag, Unknowingly standing in a cell. Broken links about, Passing the conceivable barrier, Still we stand. Connect, disconnect, Create, destroy; All the same to Her. She casts a warm glance Every now, And again -- as we dance and twirl in our pitiful benightedness.