The Moon Drifts

From the October 16th poetry prompt

Image by Here and now, unfortunately, ends my journey on Pixabay from Pixabay

The moon drifts alone, away, an
open-mouthed smile, forgiving
the tides for their fierce
ingratitude and gravity for
incarcerating us all, everywhere —
butterflies pull on marigolds, and
stars swirl ever nearer to
destruction, bitter-bold and
frequent, as if oblivion were
merely a game we all play.

We cannot disable our rotation, and the motion
of galaxies about to collide, give or take a billion years.

And yet,
the coffee drips black
crows, the harbingers
of old men
living alone
among the graves.

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