Husks of Humans

I'm looking at the husks of humans,

groping in the pallor of a dimly lit room,

swaying shells.

What has transpired to warrant such hollowness?

I remember,

in the springtime, the cicadas would come out.

The air would be full of a calming, ceaseless humming.

Those beautiful living creatures would transcend,

leaving their

husks behind,

empty shells clinging to empty trees,

Swaying in the breeze.

Where went the flawless, flying creatures

that I knew?

For though you sway and move about,

There's no life there;

You're just a husk,

A shell of what some angel left

to rot and gather dust.