Controlled Mayhem Then Erupts

This moon was a planet just like earth,
 Only it is even deader.
 The pistols of its flowers are the only protection
 Against insects, which were
 More preoccupied with the
 Half-rotted inhabitants soiled to the brim
 Under their own garments.
 History tells us of their blood
 Flowing down one leg and up the other.
 Memories insoluble to their conscience,
 Memories outside themselves in a twisted prank
 Played upon them by dogs
 Tired of chasing their food.
 Thin oxygen curves their posture substantially.
 Flashes of their purpose
 Stripped to skeletal ornaments
 Of meat and resin from animal marks
 Flicker over the loudscreen.
 Machines hum quietly in the distance.
 A few naive inhabitants wander
 Foolishly after sundown
 In search of black spots,
 But no one leaves this moon carefree of memory.
 Survivors often match their hands upward
 Towards greater satellites,
 Wronged in the eyes by a million miles
 And a million more bodies to sift through.
 The smaller creatures have the secret
 To pinning us down to the dirt:
 When they breathe, they inspire.
 When we breathe, we expire.