Fullness

The moon is brooding over us tonight
Red, full, and troubled by our lives
Unsure if what we do is ever right
Unclear the end to which our toil strives.
It floats above us like a lidless eye
That strains to see the purposes we weave
Pondering in its eternal scry
What we imagine we'll someday achieve
And how our efforts point us towards those goals.
It has no purpose, is, but does not yearn
Cannot comprehend our hearts or souls
But tries by airless logic to discern
The why of us. I cannot help it, though
I know my own, for love it cannot know.