Sunday's Poetry

The moon still hangs in the morning sky.
This fascinates you, sun and moon
sharing the same space, when
always you've been told
sun is day, moon is night.

"What's behind the sky?"
you ask.
"Outer space,"
I answer.

Immediately I am thrown into
the cavernous void of why.
Why'd you bother with the other planets?
Pretty in pictures,
but what's the point?

Mostly I question
the existence of deviant cells,
a vicious army.
Moving, dividing, conquering.

I would have preferred another beautiful orb instead.