Alone

THE SATELLITE (ODA SPUTNIKU)

It lingers on the edge of sight,

a silver hush, a distant spark,

adrift between the day and night,

too dim for dawn, too pale for dark.

It drifts, it turns, it learnt its place,

a weightless thing, a tether undone.

Forever circling warmth it chased,

Left tracing paths that led to none.

It hums with thoughts not meant to keep,

a cipher spun in quiet air,

called wise when waters run too deep,

called wreckage when has nought to share.

A story stirs where none was told,

where echoes weave and darkness rule.

It's name is pressed with merciless steel,

soft metal turned beneath the tool.

It drifts, it turns, it learnt its place,

a weightless thing, a tether undone.

Forever circling warmth it chased,

Left tracing paths that led to none.

1

They drink from wells they claim run dry,

then curse the flood, the rising tide.

Hushed whispers hum beyond its door,

while silence rules await inside.

Thought tethered tight, a signal, a guide,

held in the sky with careful intent.

But just a shell, too heavy to shine,

weight left to wander when purpose spent.

It drifts, it turns, it learnt its place,

a weightless thing, a tether undone.

Forever circling warmth it chased,

Left tracing paths that led to none.

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Done