This is me, unmade.
Nothing remains of the will of the watcher. In the great play, who is the audience?
The once and future king.
Feed me, storm. Make it all as it used to be.
I'm here to be nourished, to drink your Thunder and hear your rain. I can read your lightning like a mother knows the cry of her baby.
Talk to me, storm, for I am the one that wishes to hear your plea.
Fill me with your razor winds and show me the familiar face of your clouds. Like mine they are dark and everchanging. Like mine, they hide all light within them.
You are a moving point, storm, you're a blur. But me, no, I'm always here. I'm a fixed point of cataclysm, self-contained and feasting on myself.
So feed me, storm, and allow me to give you home. Make the beautiful chaos stir in me again. Make us kin, for kin we have always been.
And as you move on, please take a memory of me with you. For I am now fed. I am now motion. I am a vessel of the blunt wise force of nature...
Just as you pleaded me to be.