Trickle-Venticules
Condensation is the creeping horror,
Bleeding walls with sweat –
Seeping, silent, dripped in poison,
Rotting morals wet.
But here comes fresh-air thinking,
As a purgative for pores –
To sweep the stale and musty rooms
And desiccate the spores.
But where we find the spiders,
We find a fresh, hygienic room –
They lurk within such ducts,
Where only dry arachnids loom.
They nest besides the breeze
That comes to tickle and sedate –
For a sanctum that’s as dry-as-bones,
Has webbing in its grate.
