Tho' Once Alive, the Moon

Is dead. The O of naught.
No poems or water there.

Liege silence worms through
Its heart - old luggage

Of cold iron. No attraction
But the past - code of stone,

Cryptic; dead as the future.
Already the race has been raced,

The dance one-stepped for mankind
On a momentary impulse of dust.

- The Fool
- photographer unknown - from Observational Astronomy.