Awakened by the crashing sounds of the storm, the old man lay afraid,
Not by the storm itself, but by the fear of what lies in the dark unrestrained.
He’s spent his days collecting items of intrigue and boastful of all combined,
But now as the lights have vanished, his wants and desires soon redefined.

He stumbles. The house shakes with each blow of light from the Gods,
The very thing he needs also sees to tease in flashes. What are the odds?
Prized possessions become meaningless as he rages through the home,
Searching for a light, a glimmer of hope to conquer this storm alone.

The sounds of shattering glass and the bangs of trinkets and literature,
He falls, crawls, and bawls through the damage, as light dances a broken picture.
The old man wishes he would have never left the safety of his warm cozy bed,
But fear pushed him forward, now, keeps him lost and stalemate inside his head.

He lies waiting for the storm to pass as the darkness consumes his will,
He ponders the thought of the fear that’s sought, his curiosity gaining its fill.
His possessions were an obsession of filling a void whose depth was in question,
Gone in an instance of subjection, his actions forward will serve the lesson.

He moves. Pushing against fear was a force he never once recognized,
Self-preservation became the illumination of what was missing in his life.
No more boasting, and not a mutter more of what fake flattery has in store,
For the storm that took everything will leave behind a man reborn.