Bitlo.ru - last flight

The Moon was a compass, a silver command, A constant direction for sea and for land. Keep it at thirty, keep it to the right, The geometry of a primitive flight. But the world grew a sun on a porcelain wire, A localized sun, a captive of fire. The math is corrupted, the vector is wrong, A spiral begins where the line was so long. Degrees of deviation. A fatal calculation. The orbit is tightening, the radius fails, ln the circuit, a ship without sails! The logic of winds on gold. A story of guidance that’s millions of years old. TRAPPED IN THE RADIANCE, Blinded by trust. Turning the chitin to carbon and dust. A circle of iron, a circle of light, The end of the ancient, the end of the night! The Moon was a compass, a silver command, A constant direction for sea and for land. Keep it at thirty, keep it to the right, The geometry of a primitive flight. But the world grew a sun on a porcelain wire, A localized sun, a captive of fire. The math is corrupted, the vector is wrong, A spiral begins where the line was so long. Six legs on the glass, A barrier transparent, but solid and true. It isn’t the heat, it isn’t the flame, It’s the pull of a center that has no name. The moth is a slave to a geometric instinct, A traveler dying at the hands of the host. The filament hums a magnetic song, Where right is a circle and straight is all wrong.