8100 Polls

Stuck Indoors Inside Stuck Locked in a cocoon They've taken eighty-one hundred polls from the people Near and wide But we are still out of control A census gone rogue Lost in space like our ancestors, and forefathers before them We are full Filled to the brim With a need for adventure A need for sole victory A symphony without song A song without music 8100: the angels number Of connecting Of relationship But we are quarantined alone, together You can find us searching the cosmos Looking for answers Looking for purpose Looking for ourselves Looking for a melody