There is no calm before the storm.
This tempest is neverending. These brief moments of peace are only that.
I am the pupil, swollen by too much light, staring up into the fickle sun.
I still reside within the storm. On the horizon, I see the dark spinning clouds as they draw near to envelop me again.
I have been a sower of the wind.
I have cast my dreams like seeds into the blistering sky.
Now I must succumb to what I have become.
I am the whirlwind reaper.