Rotary Haze

A slow twist, the blade spins thin,

a gray film thick with months within.

Dust clings tight like silent lies,

settled in layers beneath dim skies.

Each rotation stirs the air,

clouds of neglect, dry and bare.

Fingers swipe, but never clear,

a haze that lingers, dry and sheer.

Sneezes break the quiet spell,

a powder storm inside this shell.

Rotary haze, a ghostly veil,

swirling slow, brittle and pale.