Everyone says so.
Just a lifeless floating orphan,
adrift on gravity’s tide,
clad in gray regolith dust,
barren and bereft.
And yet we keep looking.
Staring intently across the centuries,
as though there may yet be
something poised there,
waiting to surprise and excite
the senses, perhaps offer hope
in a place where there can be none.
The light, they say,
is a mirage, an illusion
stolen from another,
nothing but a reflection
of what we imagine we see,
a harsh and cold chimera
ripped from us eons ago,
thrust away, only never quite gone,
always circling circling,
gazing down in envy,
or perhaps pity,
at what we have become.