The Pen and The Wind

Of the stripped and bare chassises that rust and rot,
Would they have given all they got?
Ruining everything of the lot?

Ruminate and fascinate on silent moons,
Pondering repeatedly lonely doom,
And stripped bare of any boon.

Oh if the fires could subside,
Would I up and die?
Or live in ash and never fly?

The answer never comes,
And kills those who are dependent on it.
Mourn them, for it will be the only existing memories of them.  

There exists in a dark room somewhere, 
Hunched over a bright laptop screen,
A meat sack, a compilation of organs,
That offers nothing, that does nothing,
It takes up space and consumes resources,
And nothing more.

It’s body misshapen and malformed,
As too many resources are pumped into it,
It’s has testicles that pointlessly produce sperm,
As all of them will dry up and die nowhere near a woman,
It produces nothing that no one wants,
And lives to only gratify itself.

But, it only does this because it only has itself,
For this meat sack has human DNA,
But is not human,
For no one has acknowledged it as such,
So it must live as something lesser,
It is forever the parasite that is meat sack.