At first, it is a cockroach,
Which survives every boot-print you leave on it.
Then, it is a vulture,
Circling above, waiting for a moment of weakness.
It becomes a tiger,
Which hunts you in the night, until you wake up.
Suddenly, it is a storm,
And the tornado's of your past are throwing you away,
And you're drowning in the air, and you are singing in the rain,
And then the storm is gone.
So tell me, wise reader...
What is left?