After the sparks have turned to ashes and snowflakes have turned to drops, you can hear the storm coming. A bustling fury and rain come to cleanse the dry lands of my mind.
I blow in the gust away all that remains and washing all the tainted stains that were laid. The storm is a mixture of the furious winds and endless rains. Washing away every little thing around me. I cannot be stopped at the behest of no man. Except for one that will forever refuse to do so. I am armed with tempests and reach out to grasp everything I can break.
The centre, the eye of the storm, is where the worst it... I feel the fury and tears without reason. I cast away everything that makes the effort to calm me down. Everything that gets caught in with me ripples.
I am the storm, the mixture of the fury that bustle away everything and the endless tear drops that follow.