Sonnet CLXXVI

Whose home is this, which gladly I destroy?
It’s mine I think; I recognise the place:
so messy, falling out of ordered grace –
I’ve failed to keep it running like a toy,
although I’ve tried a multitude of ploys
to save its limbs and legs and fallen face.
But still it shatters at a growing pace;
its moaning racket starts to thus annoy.

Collapse and death are threatening but near.
This home has not been kept for very long,
but doctors say there’s nothing they can do.
We only wait, regret, and wipe our tears
as bodies rot and live where they belong –
in earth, corrupt, and serving plants as food.