My Backyard

My back yard is full of my brother's stuff.
No cars are left whole and paint jobs are rough.
They sit on jack stands to rust and decay.
Wind blows away sands; the cars always stay.

My back yard is dead; the grass is unseen.
The insects have fled from the lack of green.
It is far too dry to sustain life forms.
I look to the sky, but do not see storms.

My backyard is black and full of despair.
There is a big stack of wheels with no air.
The spiders have spun cobwebs in the shed
Insecticides stun, but I think they're dead.

My backyard's a jail that traps human souls.
I cannot post bail or find what it stole.