You are the storm, you say?

You speak of yourself as a storm. As if to warn me away. And in doing so, fail utterly, if that be your goal.

I am He who walks between. I speak with the embodiments of the elements, I cavort and hold friendship with those of air.

I follow the path of a lord of Storm, of night, of Winter.

You speak to me of your storm and I think, “Perfection.” Be you a storm. Strike wind and in fierceness know, in me you are home.

Should you care to make a place with me. Storms are not to be feared but loved. Shouted in joy. And should they calm, spoken soft words to and made ready for when next they stir.

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