Upon gazing at satellites and planes,
I have unveiled the truest imposters of life.
How they flash like camera lights
on an eighteenth birthday, distant but bright,
brighter than a candle's flicker of pride.
And it's this pride I left to slide, left
with broken legs, never using its wings for flight.
Because there's a name beneath each star
but it's never mine. Such sadness in satellites
I could never deny, but these planes keep hovering
above rooftops, dropping glimpses of hope
with their double exposure, albeit blind, to my eyes.
