Junkyard

This is where they are
laid to rest,
redundant after being useful,
replaceable as everyone of us is,
though we think otherwise.
This is where the metal rusts,
inertia gathers,
after being the vessel of motion.
This is a graveyard of first dreams,
fast life.
This sacrificial pyre
stacked over each other, jenga like.
The organs harvested,
separated like slag.
This scrapyard is an ore,
an offering to the earth,
The tree that sheds its leaves,
dying to becomes mere wood.