This is my most recent poem. It is about how natural things decay back to soil, but not man made objects?

Whereby Upon

Whereby upon our deaths

Or emerging lives traversing soils

Upon which lie discarded bony branches

Cut from emerging trees

To become

That from whence they came ~

And under sky, rain with wind,

Forces swim while drone bees encircle

Navigating ripples flexed by south wind;

Petals, fallen leaves

Shroud creatures dried on their backs,

That find their way, or their way is found ~

Back to ground, dissolved, abound,

Whereby upon their deaths slices water

In front withdrawing asides,

Behind its curtain closing

To dark,

Merely where light's finger has yet to touch.

What remains refuses departure,

Never a stray spirit or phantom's woe;

As monuments to plasticity stand,

Becoming new headstones, whereby

Upon our deaths after all else walks

Such moulded tombs, metal, and poisoned gold ~

Sit, wait, piled, impenetrable to all

But stale air wisps,

Microbials and their kin; eventually

Whereupon moulded death such cavities appear

Where suffocating weight collapses

As roots pierce through from whence they came.

Where would each apple fall

If after yielding

For Autumnal harvest

They stand petrified

On tideless shores

Where only salt from sea breeze accompanies~

Whereupon ground's nourishing

To nothing,

Voids' dark,

And decayless,

Where not even we could walk

Lest fruits born fell from aged stalk.