This is a poem about dusting.
|Sneezing, coughing, itching|
A layer of grey, as stark as smoke.
Multiplying faster than rabbits,
Settling quicker than volcanic ash.
Fingers swiping at places touched by light, often unseen to the eyes,
Fingers dark and fuzzy where touched by the dirt, area swiped bright in contrast.
The only weapon against this terrible foe,
A fuzzy, fluffy fabric fastened to plastic.
And this weapon is more effective than a sword,
At least at thwarting this dark foreboding enemy.
But it always returns, never vanquished,
So fight often, my friends, against the war that never ends.