Winds whipping certainties into,
Tiny hurricanes,
Spinning around every drop of thought she
Disowns, discounts.
This turmoil, the only survival she's ever known,
Keeps her in the air, suspended, ambiguous, beautiful or terrifying?
So she shakes and cries in fear,
Of the day she stops spinning.

Surrounded by biting cold fronts,
Pushed around by sparks of warm relief,
She's a hot mess, sticky, humid, and alive with electric charge.

Her pleas bellowed into thunder,
Static shock breaking her voice,
Into something massively engulfing.
The kind of sound that makes a grown man feel small.

You can feel her coming from miles away.
She knows the weight of her presence better than anyone.
So lonely and heavy is her grief,
So bright and menacing is her capability.

Ironically, just the right balance of
Hot,  
           And cold,
                                 Positivity,
                                                     And negativity,
Swiftly reacting, turning, changing her,
Into this rain ridden,
Angst swollen,
Ferociously complex storm system,
Stealing the heat she can,
Clinging to any energy she once drew on.
Never releasing her festerings.
Standing above a world she cannot touch,
Without destroying.