The Compass

I tried to write about how everything becomes obsolete, but it didn't come out right.

The orange compass, having never been used for its intended purpose, lies in anticipation.
The rooster is passed over by the clock. Becoming a simple pet, it grows fat.
The broken edge points to a tear in the map of three galaxies.
The typewriter breaths its last breath.
The floppy disk hardens.
Newspapers pile up inside a large house I used to walk by as a child.
The train screams a loud, metallic, groan as it screeches by an old, dilapidated mansion outside Lancaster, Missouri.
All hope seems lost.
There is a place for everything in the graveyard.
Life begins anew.
I am wearing my watch.
Anything can be a paperweight, except they are now obsolete too.
When will humans be replaced?

Author's Note

I tried to write about how everything becomes obsolete, but it didn't come out right.