He comes like the storm,
a force unbidden, unchained, nameless,
whispering through the hollow corridors of existence,
reminding me that to resist him
is to resist the movement of time itself.
What is free will but a thread in the wind?
What is choice when the flood has already risen?
He is the rain, relentless, knowing,
finding the cracks in my being
and seeping into the spaces I swore were mine alone.
He is the earth—unchanging, patient,
an ancient whisper beneath my feet.
I crumble against him like the cliffs eroded by centuries,
yet he holds me firm,
as if even my destruction belongs to him.
What is permanence, if not an illusion?
What is love, if not the quiet gravity
that keeps celestial bodies in their endless dance?
He is fire, consuming, forgotten in its own hunger,
not knowing where it ends and I begin.
Destruction or creation—does it matter?
The universe itself was born of heat and fury,
stars collapsing, only to burn brighter.
Perhaps this is the truth of us—
not meant to endure, only to blaze,
to mark our moment upon the infinite
before being claimed by the void.
And when we meet, when we collide,
we are the unmaking of all that was known—
a breaking of cosmic law, a defiance of order.
We are the thunder before silence,
the sky splitting open to reveal the abyss.
And in that abyss, I find him,
not as a lover, nor a force, nor a name—
but as the answer to a question
the universe never meant for me to ask.