Sorrow is a language of love

The sky weeps for the passing of beauty
Ripped from this world by terror
Asleep in the belief of safety
Content
But waking in pain
In fear
Looking into the face of one’s god
Pleading for succor
But there are limits on us all
And so we weep
And the brothers who hunt the land eternal
Rage as sight is blurred and torn from us
Stand vigil in the windswept madness
Of a pain
Neverending

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.