Discard

Here they lie, direlect shells of their former selves. Like dozens of long-nosed bugs, they stare at me as I stare at them. I feel sympathy for them, the once-great machines that flew through the clouds. All that remains are large fields of shapes, the forms of their former glory, and I feel for them. Is it unusual to feel things for something that was never alive by human standards? And yet they were all alive. My beliefs will not let them rest. Their pieces scattered like material dust, I can only look at them and feel.
So many people. So many cars, planes, boats, vehicles of all types. People used these things, and after we are through with them they are discarded like, well, scrap metal, except they are the scrap metal we relate to so often.
And one day we will be discarded too, just like them.

The filth. It covers everything around them as they walk through a place full of it. Around the yard, the trees are vibrant shades of green, and it's amazing that such colours could exist surrounding the disgust of the slick black oil. How can they build cities, communities around this? Gaping holes in the ground, islands of metal, mountains of garbage. How can these colours exist here? How, when we are so disgusting, can people ignore that which once served us and now works against us? They form roads of candles by the light it gives them, and once they have what they want they discard and ignore the remainders.