Triangulation

Triangulating where I think we are
By locking sights upon the farthest star,
Connecting dots that likely don't exist,
And chanting like a mindless exorcist.
These methods are not guaranteed to prove
That we are much aligned or in the groove;
In fact, the most remorseless calculations
Have placed us in combative constellations.
Comets, whose wayfarings our sun embrace,
Surpass us in their constancy and grace;
We wobble, shift around, and tend to hide
In globs of viscous cyanide.
Never quite in open opposition,
We specks seem doomed: a baleful disposition
Forces us apart and into interstellar spaces,
Two entropic patients perishing from stasis.