In the shed

Down in the shed, dead organic matter
in every direction maybe if
i picked it up and lumped it all together  
it would form something in the size of a football.  
It's in the air and in the dust,  
   you're breathing it in,  
dried out, skeletal spider bodies  
the deceased children of Prometheus.  
It's a morbid sight, even evil to the eye  
but don't be fooled; nothing here either lives or hungers  
nothing here is love, and nothing is hate  
All is the indication of a hopeless fate.  
Everything in here bears witness of a time that was  
The shovel leaning on the wall  
maybe it's in glued stuck in some way  
however how, I don't want to speculate.  
The shelves standing are rotten down to the bone,  
but I wouldn't try moving them  
to uncover whatever grave abomination    
that lives down below.