I am what you clean off your filter, the collection of contaminants in the air. You may have trouble removing me from between short little hairs.

You can use me to doodle your dreams, or riddle your enemy as he screams Don’t bury me when you write a tale, but take me when helping a group not to fail They say get me out when you’re in a rush, if I get in your system then you’ll need a flush

My first part can be anything fun and amusing; my last means to lease, or allow. My whole is a room where some Rest and some Go, which you likely will visit alone, Or it could be a seat, if you're being discreet; some people call it a throne.

I am the hymn of what once was whole, a silent scribe of a vanished soul. I wear the grey of memory’s veil, In death, I speak what life won’t tell. I mark the end, yet still a prize, what am I, from which phoenix rise?

I slip into cups without a single sound, Kings fear me more than any blade or war, One tiny drop and empires crumble slow, Yet doctors use me to heal what I destroy.