no moisture

Some places were made to keep the outside out.
Born from ash,
rent by grunting hands from dirt, bent
by careful engineers, the metal groans
escaping. In this sorcery,
the treasures of our earth are made familiar:
marble counter, steel-backed chairs,
hardwood cabinets, polished glass.
Not the living rock of caves
or mossy quiet of cabin dark
up in a copse of old growth trees.
No daffodils or fungal musk,
or squirming puddles thick with tadpoles.
No writhing gasp of life at all.
Order in our caves. Our timbers do not rot.
Our drinks stay cold in summer in the heat.

Flawless walls put up by sublime
art keep us alive, and safe,
and preserved as apples drying
on a string. No moisture in
this room.

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If anyone's got any idea for how to expand this metaphor a bit that'd be cooooool