Free Write Poem

The Men on the Moon

It's instinct, they say,
To fight when your doomed,
To break one's own back,
While other men's bloomed.

It's history, they say,
As they slowly look back,
Gravity pulling onward,
Time lost in its track.

It's living, they say,
To be stuck rolling forward,
Like winds nip your hide,
Biting, you just march toward.

It's redemption, they say,
To pick up one's pride,
Off the saloon's floor,
Then meander outside.