Why

Senseless, synical satire on the solemnity of sorrowful
solitude,
Announces, unannounced with apparent aptitude,
Of the Reapers, reapings raped and ravages rail,
But all that is left, lays longing for lonesome fulfillment.
Monstrous magnitude of man's ill management.
And all, are dumb appatures of assuage.
For final senselessness of it festers,
Nothing then, O nothing is or will be noted,
And the silent, sorry figure sits alone and wonders,

Why?