I am born. I die. I eat, breathe, and produce waste, yet I am not alive. What am I?

I’m already dead, call my next of kin! My homophone fits in the overhead bin. What am I?

I rule the house, though I pay no rent, I sleep all day, my energy spent. You serve me meals, you clean my throne, Yet still you think you own the home.

I turn without a dancer’s grace, And carve destruction in my place. A silent eye amid the fight, My voice a howl, my touch a bite.

I fall without a sound, so pure, A blanket soft, both cold and sure. I dance on air and kiss the ground, Then vanish soon without a sound